Two large sliding doors were cracked open. He slid one door open and slipped inside. The building was dark, stocked with farm equipment, and had a faint but not repulsive whiff of manure or mulch. He saw light at the far end, coming, he saw as his eyes adjusted, from a finished room built inside. Maybe it was an office. He tiptoed on through toward it and heard the muffled rhythm again. It was metal music.
“Freeze!” someone shouted.
16
“You’re dead, you’re so dead,” the voice said, mixed with giggling.
Greg’s arms had shot up as if pulled by cables. He lowered his arms and turned around to see a teenager about his size but with a piercing stare, like Donny’s. He wore military-style paintball gear. He aimed a paintball gun at Greg.
The boy was grinning too, so Greg thrust his arms back up.
“It’s just paint, right? Go for it,” he said, playing along.
The boy aimed and splattered Greg with yellow liquid. It stung but didn’t hurt that bad. Greg let out a fake yelp, dropped to his knees, pretended to die.
The boy laughed. “You’re so toast,” he said.
“Totally. I thought it would hurt more.” Greg stood back up, shaking off some of the yellow.
“It washes right off. Karen can get it out,” the boy said.
He talked younger than his probable age. His piercing stare had relaxed, revealing one of those broad and soft oval faces that would either stay boyish or grow ugly in middle life. It could go either way. Greg hung around boys like this when he was this kid’s age. They had always listened to what he had to say, did what he suggested.
“And, Karen, she’s your mom?” Greg said.
“No way. You don’t know my mom.”
“But, Charlie Adler, he’s your dad. Right?”
It was pushing evening by the time Donny showed. Greg was waiting it out in Donny’s study. Donny came in singing some song Greg didn’t know and made his way down the hall to the study. He was dancing with himself, all tiptoes. He danced through the doorway into the den. He turned on vintage country music. George Jones. He kept dancing, produced a can of chew, and took a dip so strong it smelled like paving tar. He faced Greg and put out his arms pretending to dance with Greg even though Greg had stayed down in the chair.
“Tune like this? Get you through anything,” Donny said. “Man.”
“I’d like to leave my bike here if that’s all right.”
“All right,” Donny said, dancing away and humming, just him and The Possum.
Greg waited for a break between songs. It took at least a minute, in which time Donny spun his imaginary Greg five times. Donny had always had a lot of energy, liked to get fired up, but this? People were supposed to mellow as they got older. He didn’t smell drunk either, and Greg hoped maybe he was just a little high. Greg could do with some of that right now.
“Someone screwed with my bike,” Greg said. “It’s not cool.”
“What’s that you say, feller?”
“Someone’s fucking with me. Undid the locks to my car and bike, let the air out of my tires. I’m guessing it’s your buddy Wayne Carver.”
Donny kept on dancing for about thirty seconds. He slowed, sighing, but kept rocking on his heels as if ready to dance some more. “That sounds like him. I’m sorry. Don’t know who else it could be. You know what? I’ll talk to him.”
“Also, I met Gunnar,” Greg said.
Donny stopped. He went over, turned down the music. He nodded to something going on in his head and stood before Greg.
“When?” Donny said. His smile fading away.
“This afternoon. Out in the barn or whatever you call it.”
“I have a boy. Now you know. Why you looking at me like that? It’s not like it’s some kind of secret.”
“How old is he?”
“Eighteen. Just about nineteen. Good kid, ain’t he? Don’t worry, I was going to tell you.”
“Who’s his mother?” Greg said.
Donny scowled. “Like you give a shit.”
That stung, but Greg would have to take it. “Leeann Holt?” he said.
“Well, that’s a real fine fucking guess, ain’t it?”
Oddly, the revelation stung less. Greg stood. He did his best to stand tall, feet wide and shoulders squared, better than he had done with Wayne. “What did you tell Gunnar?” he said. “I mean, about the new you?”
George Jones was doing a real slow song now, practically spoken word as if The Possum himself was telling the story of one Donny Wilkie. Donny took a moment, his eyes bulging and bare and shiny white. He said:
“It was more like, how. I told little Gunnar, okay, little feller, if anyone found out? His dear daddy would go away. Never to return. That’s all you need to tell a child. ‘Course I didn’t like it, but it was the only way to keep us together. Without my Gunnar, why try and make myself something better?”
That night in bed a panic consumed Greg, just like the anxiety attacks he used to have years ago, episodes that, he had learned to see, had everything to do with what started with Donny and ended up at the lake. They returned in the morning as he drove into town, even though his bike and rack were safe in Donny’s garage. He parked and stomped down Callum Street, cursing the sun in his eyes. Now he knew why people wore big hats around here. It wasn’t for style.
He hadn’t called Emily, he realized. Maybe that would help. He had a hard time getting the signal on Callum Street, so he wandered a side street holding up his phone. He ended up in a small town park with barely three bars of coverage. He called and got her message:
“It’s Em. You know what to do. Cheers.”
He said, “Look, I’m, uh, sorry I haven’t called, or texted even. It’s just that it’s hard to get coverage here. Okay, bye.”
Emily had probably seen his call and not answered. The thought made hot blood rush to his brain. It embarrassed him, being denied like that, even though he did it too. She could have been working. Or, as he now imagined, she was sitting at an outdoor table at one of Portland’s most precious coffee purveyors with a younger, better-looking version of him. This version had lived abroad, somewhere like Budapest, and had multiple degrees and a trust fund from a family with a long history in the textile business. They would get drinks and go back to his place, but she wouldn’t let him do anything. Not this time. She really didn’t think she should. This time.
This alone should have made him jump right back in his rental car and head to Portland, or at least make him call or text, but it only made him slump down on a park bench, the anger replaced by a squeezing of his heart.
He shot up and found Callum Street and marched along the main drag, intent on confronting Wayne Carver if he had to.
The streets were oddly empty, even for here. Many stores had signs saying they were closed or would be back later. He saw Tam outside Tam’s Tavern, sweeping the sidewalk. She leaned on her broom and raised her eyebrows at him. “That bad, huh?” she said. Apparently she could read his mind as well as make a kick-ass bar sandwich.
“I’m okay,” he said.
“You didn’t stay?”
“What? Stay where?” Donny wasn’t there when he’d got up. “Why? What’s happening?”
Tam’s eyes widened, and she took a deep breath. “Oh, you don’t know about it, do you? No one told you. I thought you knew.”
17
Greg’s chest had filled with a sickening pressure. His unease was different from that nighttime panic that had returned. This was more like loathing. He stood along a crop field, staring out at the crowd. The people swarming out in the field wore a mix of Americana garb and Teabagger fashions, the flags and eagles on them massive and making their clothes look like drapes cut into outfits. He saw 1776-era three pointed hats, nooses for vengeance, Don’t Tread on Me drawings and a couple muskets. It looked to be one of those faux-populist protests of the Tea Party variety or whatever they were calling themselves now, like a July Fourth picnic colliding with an American Revol
ution reenactment and channeling the mood of a lynch party. It was a phenomenon that Portlanders feared and mocked and thought only happened in the Midwest or South (and future Cascadians would never have to see, according to his book). Yet here they were, so proudly staking their ground in a brown field in rural Oregon. And why not? Greg thought, appealing to reason to help calm himself. If this place could have a secretive militia movement, according to Agent Torres, then why not this? Portland had them. Portland even had Neo-Nazis. He was only surprised not to see more camouflage gear like the militia wannabes sported on the Internet. But, why exactly here? On this very spot?
It was about a half hour after he’d left Tam’s. Tam had told him this was Callum property. Yet this part was not green. It was all brown and barren more like those dry lands he had seen on the other side of town. This road had surely never carried so many vehicles. Parked TV trucks from both regional and national networks blocked half the way. Greg had steered around the TV trucks, parked, and got out his reporter’s notebook and voice recorder.
He wondered why TV news had bothered to come out here. Any elections were far off, and politicians never visited a place like this unless there appeared a sure reason to benefit.
Greg straightened his posture, chin up, and marched out into the field. TV camera crews stood on the fringes of the crowd, their crews and hosts chatting. He passed them, heading into the crowd. People glared at him with his reporter tools, so he slid his notebook and recorder into his coat pocket. The assholes from the food stamps line were here. He started a moment because more of the open-carry terrorists were here, showing off holstered side arms mostly but a few hunting and assault rifles—and even what looked to be a couple semi-automatics made into fully automatic machine guns, all it took was a conversion kit bought on the Internet. Again this was so surreal that he hadn’t noticed at first. He’d seen just one county sheriff’s car on the edge of the field, and now he questioned whose side they were on. It was paranoid of him, sure, but he had to consider it. Signs bobbed above the heads:
Dam the Feds.
Stop the Flood!
Live Free or Die.
Secession Now!
Secession? Greg recoiled this time, his knees jerking. Secession was against the Cascadian way. He wanted to shout it out. Any reinvention was to be peaceful, not like this. He’d always known that militias and their brood wanted to break away, but he never took it seriously. Now he saw proof of it right here. Now he got one reason why those assholes in the food stamp line had been so fired up—they’d been waiting for this event, chomping and provoking like tailgaters on the eve of a big game.
Just beyond the crowd, a small stage was being set up. Some men mingled behind it, half-hidden behind equipment. A few would-be toughs stood around as if on guard. Casey and Damon were among them and were looking cleaned up.
A TV reporter approached the front edge of the stage, a little man with the happy little round face of a mediocre comedian—he was grinning, waving at the crowd, then aiming his mike like a pistol. It appeared everyone knew who this man was except Greg. The crowd hollered and cheered, swinging and pumping their signs about the dam and the water, but the signs damning the Feds and calling for secession had vanished as if on command. A producer calmed the crowd, the cameraman leaned into his camera, and the TV reporter gave his live remote report. Greg couldn’t hear it from where he was. The reporter spoke low, almost whispering. His face had turned downward, laden with gravitas, nodding with import.
Donny stood farther backstage, behind stacked equipment and a couple tall speakers. Charlie Adler, rather. He wore a cowboy hat and sunglasses, looking to Greg like some country music star waiting to go on. Donny moved in place, doing his version of a jig.
Greg didn’t flinch this time. He moved closer. He had to show himself, let Donny see him.
Donny’s sunglasses locked on Greg from across the way. His jig slowed. He nodded and grinned. Greg nodded back.
Gunnar appeared next to Donny. Gunnar saw what his dad saw. He dared a smile for Greg.
The crowd began in again, this time for real and with furor. All the protest signs were back, Feds this, secession that. Was Donny really this stupid? Greg thought. Was he going to take the stage as Charlie Adler? Expose himself to the world? Endanger their secret? Surely Donny was not that naive. He had lost such naiveté years ago, Greg knew, because Greg had been there on the very day that he had.
At that moment, Wayne Carver appeared backstage. Standing tall. He wore pressed jeans and a baby blue button-down and looked surprisingly respectable this way, like the manager of a family restaurant where people went after church. Wayne began rolling up the sleeves of his respectable button-down. He didn’t so much as nod at Donny. He passed right on by him and strode up onto the stage.
18
Donny Wilkie watched Greg’s face pale to bone-white stone as the crowd kicked in and Wayne Carver took the stage. This here show was on. Greg was about to see what he, Donny Wilkie aka Charlie Adler, was really made of. What his real game was about.
Onstage Wayne Carver nodded and grinned, just like Donny had shown him. The crowd roared with more hurrahs, more applause.
Donny could see Greg wilt down in front, actually sagging, a shriveling petal. How funny would it be, Donny thought, to send Casey or Damon on over with a protest sign to hold, compliments of Wayne Carver?
Up on the stage Wayne, still waving to the whooping crowd, pushed up his sleeves even further like he was going to get down to work and right here. Nice touch, Donny thought. Wayne tried to quiet the crowd, but his big grin wouldn’t let them. What a grin that kid had. No one had seen it, because Wayne had rarely smiled. Donny had seen it, just once was all it took. Donny had told Wayne, if he had smiled more as a kid, maybe he wouldn’t be such a wet blanket now. Which did not make Wayne smile in itself. But now? With a purpose behind it? It was as if Wayne had a twin brought up separately by a happy family in some happy suburb somewhere, his talents in sports and theater helping him to become a beloved salesman. This newly public Wayne was pretty much the opposite of the real ole Wayne.
Donny stomped the ground in delight at his creation. He made sure Greg saw him do it.
“Well, well! Thanks all! Thanks much, much appreciated,” Wayne began.
Wayne turned his fancy grin into a straight face. Only this could calm the crowd. Wayne waited for them, for every last eye. He switched to the voice Donny had told him about—start in low, so they can barely hear you, so they need to hear you. Make it intimate. Then rise it right up.
“So, it seems they want to go and flood half the Callum family’s land too. Flood out the very family that made this town. Our town. Our water! And all for some measly salmon?!”
The crowd’s roar had a growl to it that made the meth surge in Donny. The dose was getting on top of him a little bit—again—so he moved in place to keep his shit together, shaking his legs but not jumping around. He couldn’t help feeling inspired and the meth couldn’t help helping him. Inspired for Wayne Carver, for following through. Donny had been trying to get Wayne to take a less violent, less confrontational route in public and here he was, playing it cool and populist. No need for Nazi shit or blocking roads or branding people. Wayne would always have his creepy den, that being the real Wayne, but Donny had found a way to draw him out of it. This had gone down over months, had taken a few drinking sessions (Donny with whiskey, Wayne with cream soda). He’d gotten Wayne to realize things—that he hated his father the mayor not because his daddy had ignored him, but because daddy wouldn’t let Wayne be like him. But better. A better leader. Wayne’s father, Bill was his name, was scared of that. So why not show daddy how much better than daddy you can be? Later, last time in the den, Donny had reminded Wayne: You go around threatening people and branding them and acting the big bully then you’re not getting back at your daddy, you’re just living up to his expectations for you. That’s how you got back at old man Bill, how you got even for everything. For makin
g Wayne’s mother kill herself, she was so depressed with that man—hung herself from a tree outside Wayne’s bus stop. That’s how you do it, Donny had told Wayne, and for a moment thought he had produced the glisten of a tear in Wayne’s eye. Wayne had resisted at first. Told Donny, he would try, but it didn’t come naturally to him. Nothing comes naturally, Donny had reminded Wayne. There would be setbacks. The mean streaks would want to bust out, sure they would, but they had to be roped in. The more he did it, the better the reward and the better he’d get at it until a person couldn’t tell one man from the other—until Wayne barely could himself.
Now look at him! Them! Wayne up there speaking, the people listening as if Elvis himself had returned to earth, one man with his hands clasped together tight with hope and a couple of the women nodding along like in some prairie preacher’s tent. Just like Donny had told him. You don’t have to sell them who you are. You sell them their idealized version of themselves. Speak as you are they, through you. They are what you are becoming.
Wayne said to them: “You here are a good, hard-working people, farmers many of you, some of you been here for generations. And now look what’s happened. Just another example of state, federal governments sticking it to us. Well, maybe it’s about time we go about sticking it to them!”
“It’s about time!” someone shouted.
“Damn right it’s about time, son,” Wayne said, pumping his fist, and the crowd erupted.
The crowd chanted, “Stick it to them!” and Wayne pumped his fist and Donny couldn’t stop the rush surging through him like rapids cold and hot at the same time. He grasped a speaker with both hands and leaned into it to stop him from striding right up there and making it a goddamn duet with ole Wayne. A wince of regret shot through him: It should have been him up there, but it just couldn’t be risked, not even as Charlie Adler. He squeezed his eyes shut and he dug his toes into the ground, his head whirling. And a vision kicked in, wild and glorious, all in a split second:
The Other Oregon Page 11
