Tahoe Avalanche

by Todd Borg

  “One thing led to another and my customer made me a good deal on this house. I thought, what the hell, I’ve got the money. It’s a nice place and I don’t need any more stocks. God, I can’t believe he’s gone.” He looked around in desperation, his eyes settling on the chess board, then on the TV. The Cowboys’ quarterback drilled a ten-yard bullet into the end zone. The receiver plucked it out of the air like he was catching a coasting butterfly.

  Bill took a breath, staring at the receiver, then breathed out. “March asked to come out here while he was in college. He was a snowboarder. A rider, as he used to say. But he recently switched to skis. He said the new ones are amazing in junk snow.”

  Bill drank some tea. He picked up the white queen and moved her diagonally one square, next to a group of pawns, even farther from the king. “March met some people here and came back several times. After college, he worked in Houston for a while, one of those IT companies, they make human resource software for other companies. But he didn’t like it. So he quit and asked me if he could stay here in Tahoe for a while. He wanted out of software engineering. He said he wanted to figure out his brain. I said sure. That was two years ago.”

  “What did he do for income?”

  “He worked for awhile at a snowboard shop. What they call a custom boot fitter, I guess. But he quit after a few months. He said there was some tension with the guys after he stopped riding and switched to skis. So he was back to living off his savings from his software job. There’s also a trust fund for both him and his sister. It’s not huge, but enough to pay for the basics.”

  “What happens to the income now?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. I guess it would go to his sister.”

  “Where does his sister live?”

  “April? Who knows? First, she’s in Houston right out of college, working as a secretary. It was the only work she could get because she majored in American History. What was she thinking? But she’s got a real thing for the Civil War. Always talking about Grant and Lee, Lincoln and Davis and Armstrong.

  “She came and stayed with us last fall, then left a month or so ago. I don’t know where she is now. March talked to her, but he didn’t much mention it to me. He knew we don’t get along. Once, he said April was going to the Dominican Republic. Part of some charity group that builds shelters for women. I’ve tried calling her cell, but all I get is voicemail. She never calls back. I’ll call her again. She should know about March.”

  “What’s her number?”

  Bill told me and I wrote it on a business card. I wondered how many uncles would know a niece’s phone number by heart.

  “March and April?” I said.

  “Yeah, the names are kind of different. They’re twins. Born on either side of midnight, March thirty-first.”“Their parents?”

  “Their mama was my sister. Maria Carrera. She died twenty-two years ago. The kids were three. Maria was sweet and kind and soft-spoken and beautiful...” Bill stopped talking and looked out the window. The snow had resumed falling. His dark eyes were moist. “Like I said, death in the family is hard.”

  “What about their father?”

  “Maria married a crook. John Carrera. He was around for a couple months, then left. I heard he went to Mexico and was involved in a chop shop. Cut up stolen cars to sell the parts. Probably in prison, now. Bottom line is the kids never had a father. He’d already been gone for half a year when they were born. Then, three years later, they didn’t have a mother, either.”

  “Who raised them?”

  “Maria’s best friend Gabriella Mendoza took them in. Gabriella was poor and single, but she has a good heart. She did right by them. I tried to help, but they were out in Dust Devil, Texas, and I was in Houston. And my business pretty much consumed me.”

  “Are you retired?”

  “No, I still have the nightclub, but I have a good team. I can get away, now. I couldn’t the whole time those kids were growing up. I regret that. But what can you do?” He looked at the TV, then outside as if searching for something calming. He squinted and blinked and found Kleenex in his pocket to blow his nose.

  “Who paid the bills for the kids?”

  “Gabriella is a frugal woman. I helped some. And the kids have the trust fund from my mother, bless her soul.”

  “Why don’t you get along with April?”

  “It could take some time to tell. She’s a hothead for one. Where March was calm, April flies off on every little thing. For example, I had a little party here about six weeks back. March and April and their friends. Everyone was having a good time. April started talking about when they cut all the trees in Tahoe to shore up the mine tunnels in Virginia City. She said that the silver from the Comstock Lode was part of how the Union Army was financed, so the trees of Tahoe were instrumental in helping the Union defeat the Confederates. Did you know that? That Tahoe lumber helped Lincoln hold the country together? I didn’t know that.” Bill picked up a black knight and moved it one square forward, two to the left, closer to the white king.

  Bill continued, “So it was a real interesting party conversation. But then April blew it all apart.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “April was saying something about General Grant and Armstrong, and how after the war, Armstrong had something to do with the Carson City Mint. But Paul Riceman said he didn’t think Armstrong was important enough to even talk about. Then April said she could talk about Armstrong as much as she wanted. It was the silliest of disagreements. I don’t even know who Armstrong was. Then they got in an argument and April got up and stormed out and drove away. It was like some kid having a temper tantrum. Imagine that. You’ve got these young kids who are smart enough they’re talking about the Civil War for chrissakes. But they still get in a petty argument. Ruined my party.”

  Bill turned his head and stared toward Heavenly, now obscured by clouds. Perhaps he was imagining the trails that March had ridden.

  “Paul Riceman was one of March’s friends,” I said.

  “Right. Works in construction.”

  “How’d March react to the argument?”

  “He acted like it was no big deal.”

  “You ever witness Paul argue with April before?”

  “No.” Bill shook his head.

  “Paul and March do much together?”

  “They were pretty good buddies,” Bill said.

  “Who else was at your dinner party?”

  “Let me think. Besides March and April and Paul, there was Packer and Carmen. Packer works in the same shop where March worked. They all have passes at the local areas. Except Carmen. She wants to learn to ski, but she’s afraid she’ll get hurt.”

  “April and March get along?” I said.

  “Everyone got along with March.”“And you think April is in the Dominican Republic?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. That’s what March told me.”

  I heard the pain of rejection in his voice.

  Bill looked back at the TV screen. The Vikings were in a huddle. They smacked each other on the butt and ran back to the line. The Vikings’ center snapped the ball, and the Cowboys ran over their front line and smashed the quarterback to the ground.Bill watched it, then picked up the white rook and moved it four squares to the left, taking out one of the black pawns. Bill handled the pieces with aggression as if he didn’t realize they were just pieces of carved wood.

  “Your earlier comments,” I said, “sounded like you suspected that something bad might happen to March. He’d been gone barely twelve hours, and you wanted me to investigate. Why?”

  Bill looked at me. He picked up a ballpoint pen off an end table and clicked it in and out. “Call it a feeling I had. Maybe it’s because he said something unusual about a month ago.”

  I waited.

  “He asked me if I knew any financial advisors who are good. So I said, ‘Sure, why?’ Because we both knew that March didn’t have any surplus of funds. His savings from his previous jo
b was running low. And the trust fund is locked up. He can’t touch any of it other than his monthly check.”

  “What did he say when you asked why?”

  “He said something like, ‘I’m twenty-five and I was thinking I should make a plan one of these years.’”

  “Why does it stand out?” I said.

  “I’m not sure. I suppose it’s just that March wasn’t a planner. He lived a day at a time. When he asked me about a financial planner, it didn’t fit. I worried that he was into something bad. He also came home with a book on the stock market and one on coin collecting and Fortune magazine. It was strange, this sudden focus on investing.” Bill paused. “There’s another reason why I worried that something bad was going to happen to March.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to come downstairs to March’s bedroom.”

  TEN

  Bill hoisted himself to his feet and led me down the stairs, his pace labored, his crutches groaning. We went down a hall where Bill reached into one of the doorways and flipped on a light switch. I followed him in.

  It was an unremarkable bedroom. The bed was unmade, and there were some clothes strewn about. A snowboard leaned in one corner next to a pair of snowboard boots. The closet door stood open, revealing some clothes on hangers and more piled on the floor. On the wall were topographical maps assembled to show the lake and surrounding mountains. In another corner stood a pair of skis.

  “What made you worry about March?”

  Bill pointed at the doorknob on the closet. A necklace of sorts hung from the knob. “He didn’t wear his star,” Bill said.

  “What does that mean?”

  Bill took it off the doorknob and handed it to me. “It is an amulet that brings the protection of the Guardian Spirit.”

  It was a small circular pendent, about an inch in diameter and woven of some kind of grass. It had exquisite details and a design of interlocking triangles. Some of the grass strands were died black, some gray and some left natural buff. The pendant hung on a thin leather cord.

  “It was woven by my grandmother. She called it the Washoe Star. She said it was a design that came from her mother, my great grandmother.”

  “It looks a little like the designs I’ve seen on Washoe baskets,” I said.

  “Yeah, except it isn’t a traditional Washoe design. Great grandma was a young woman when she met one of the Chinese laborers who came to the Sierra to work on the railroads and in the mines during the Nineteenth Century. She got close to this young man. They couldn’t speak each other’s language. But she showed him her woven baskets with her beautiful designs. Then he drew her several mandalas, which are concentric geometric shapes based on Chinese deities. Great grandma joined his designs with hers and wove what she called the Washoe Star. She said it would represent the Guardian Spirit, and she passed the design on to her daughter, our Grandma.

  “Before Maria died she told Grandma how the storms in Texas were so bad that the paper called them Muerte Cielo, or Death Sky, and that her babies cried at the thunder. So Grandma wove a Washoe Star for March and another one for April so the Guardian Spirit would look out for them.”

  “But March left his at home,” I said.

  Bill looked at me, no doubt wondering what I thought about it.

  I didn’t believe that a woven amulet could, by itself, protect someone from an avalanche. But I did believe that an amulet’s presence could make someone more self-aware and, in subtle ways too numerous to count, make them more careful and more inclined to better judgement, thus achieving the intended effect.

  “Did March wear his Washoe Star often?” I asked.

  Bill nodded. “You know how objects can come to take on important symbolism and meaning?” Bill said.

  “Yeah.”

  “March wore his most every day. It was a prized possession.” Bill reached under his shirt collar and pulled out his own Washoe Star. “I’ll wear mine every day that I’m in this life.”

  I hung March’s star back on the doorknob, and we went back upstairs to the living room.

  “What about April?”

  “April is a spoiled brat. I can’t stand to be around her. If she were more of a planner than March, I would never know it.”

  “Did March spend a lot of money recently?”

  “No. He was generous, but he didn’t have a lot extra to throw around.”

  “He have any recent fights or disputes or disagreements with anyone?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “Does he hang out in bars or with guys you don’t like?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Guys that make you worry. Guys who are unemployed and un-ambitious.”

  “No.”

  “Is he on good terms with ex-girlfriends?

  Bill nodded. “There’s just the Peachtree girl, and they’re good friends.”

  “What about drugs?”

  “He wouldn’t even try coffee until he was in his twenties.”

  ELEVEN

  “You were asking about March’s friends. I forgot to mention Will. He was at the party, too.”

  “Tell me about him,” I said.

  “Will Adams is March’s main ski buddy. Lives over on the East Side. Zephyr Cove. He’s a computer guy. Fixes your computer when it crashes. He refers to himself as a rent-a-geek. He’s the guy I was going to see with my laptop the day I saw you at the shopping center.”

  “Do you have any photos I can look at?”

  “Of March and April? Sure. I also have a photo we took the day of my party. I’ll get it.” Bill hoisted himself up and hobbled over behind a couch to some shelves with electronic gear. He found some snapshots and was coming back when he caught his left crutch on the couch leg. He sprawled onto the floor, landing with a house-shaking thud.

  I ran over and bent down to him. “Bill, are you okay? That was a helluva hard fall.”

  Bill turned his head toward me, shock and confusion in his eyes. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he said in an airy voice.

  “Let me help you up.” I reached for his arm.

  “No. Don’t touch me.”

  “Easy, Bill. Just trying to help.” I stayed bent, my arm in the air, wondering if he had major injuries.

  “Get away. I’ll get up myself.”

  I backed away. It was painful to watch Bill get to his elbows and knees, grimacing in pain. He scrabbled forward, braced ankles scraping the carpet as he worked his way to the end of the couch. He got his hands onto the couch and heaved himself over it, crutches flopping, grunting like a large animal. I turned away and went over to the window to look out. Spot had pulled his head inside the Jeep. I heard the clink of crutches and more grunting behind me. Eventually, came the sounds and sighs of someone sitting down after a grueling exercise. I turned and saw Bill sitting in his chair, his chest heaving as he breathed.

  I sat down.

  “I might be a crip,” Bill said, his voice an angry growl, “but I can do the crabwalk, fend for myself. You use crutches, the whole world divides into two groups. One group ignores you, looks right the hell through you like you don’t exist. The other group is falling all over themselves trying to open doors and helping you up stairs and spreading your damn peanut butter.”

  “I won’t go near your damn peanut butter,” I said.

  Bill stared at me. He was still panting. He looked up at the TV. It showed the scoreboard. It was a rout. “I played college ball at Texas A&M. I was good. Not pro material. Too small. But they gave me a scholarship.”

  “That how you messed up your legs?”

  Bill nodded vacantly. “Yeah. Got hit from the front when my feet were pretty well anchored.” He looked down at the chessboard. “Ripped out the knee ligaments and broke the head of my left tibia up like it was made of cheap pottery. Lots of pieces. The docs got some of them back in place, but they said I wouldn’t walk again without crutches. Here I am, decades later, still proving them right. Life can change in a big way in a very short moment. Mos
t people don’t realize that until it happens to them. Surprise. One minute you’re a good athlete. The next minute the only game you’ll ever play again is something like chess. Then you can re-enact how easy it is to lose important pieces, pieces you can never get back.”

  Bill was still breathing hard. When he calmed, he pulled the snapshot out of his pocket.

  I took it from him. It showed six young people standing on Bill’s deck, snow piled high on the deck railing, the canal and a few snow-covered sailboats behind them. They were in a row with arms over each other’s shoulders, boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, boy.

  “Left to right, if I remember, is March, April, Will, Carmen, Packer and Paul.”

  March was a big kid, trim and fit like a strong swimmer, a mop of hair over a square face, a smile suitable for toothpaste commercials. He radiated confidence. His arm around his sister squeezed her with enthusiasm.

  His twin sister was the opposite. She was a foot shorter, not particularly fit looking, with a darker complexion and no smile at all. Her hair was stringy straight and most people would never notice her in a group. Yet I could see a fierce intelligence in her eyes. It reminded me of when you see a coyote staring out of the forest and you realize that nothing escapes its notice.

  The next person was Will. “You said Will’s a computer geek. Is he self-employed?” In the picture he wore jeans and a sweatshirt, a scruffy haircut combed straight up and a grin like Honey G the retriever, happy and eager.

  “I guess so, because when he fixed my firewall problem he had me write the check out to his name.”

  “What’s he like?”

  Bill thought a minute. “He’s the easy guy, everyone’s friend, no rough edges.”