by Todd Borg
“Maybe just as well,” I said. “If you could get new knees, it would ease your punishment,” I said. “Take you off the hooks you’re hanging from.”
“Right. I’m glad I can’t get them replaced. Being a crip is my penance. Without that I might be completely destroyed by my sins.”
“So the kids moved back to Dust Devil, Texas, and Gabriella raised them?” I asked.
He nodded. “I sent her some money now and then. And I started investing in what would later become the kids’ trust fund. And when I die they get everything. But I wasn’t around much. That bothers me more than I can say.”
“Did March or April ever suspect that you were at fault?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Esteban looked at me, his eyes dark as ink. His rough complexion was blotchy as if shame were pooling under his skin. “You are the only person I’ve ever told.”
We sat in silence for a minute. Bill lay his head back against his chair. He stared at the ceiling. His hands clutched the chair arms as if his grip were all that kept him from plunging into a despair that would crush what was left of his life.
“Life is so short,” he said. “You only get a few chances to make things go right. We all make lots of small mistakes. But some of us make real big mistakes, ones you’d pay any price to take back. But you can’t. So you gather up the leftover pieces of your life and reassemble them as best you can. But you make a mess with the glue, and the cracks still show and there are big holes where the missing pieces used to be.”
“Tell me about the girls you’ve been following.”
Bill jerked his eyes wide open. He stared at me, speechless. “You’ve been following me. I can’t believe that you’ve been following me. I’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. It probably looks bad, me following them, but I can explain. I’m sure I haven’t broken any laws even if I’m a little unorthodox.”
“Bill, you’re digging yourself in real deep. Stop talking in circles and tell me about the girls.”
He looked stricken. “It’s a private thing. Between me and my maker.”
I waited. Maybe my look was stern, because Bill started to shiver.
“I saw the first girl last summer,” he said. “At the grocery store. She was very young. Probably sixteen or seventeen. She had a little girl she carried on her hip. She reminded me of Maria. So thin and pretty. And no husband to help. She had to hold the baby with one hand and get the groceries into her cart with the other. Just like when Maria had March and April.
“Something happened to me, I don’t know how to describe it. I waited out in the parking lot, and when she came out I followed her. I wanted to see where she lived.
“A cab came to pick her up. I followed it over to an apartment building near the Y intersection. She got out, and it was heartbreaking to watch her struggle to carry all her bags of groceries and her baby, too. I wanted to help, but I was afraid to approach because I was certain she would be afraid of me. She was Mexican and I speak Spanish, but I kept my distance. I watched her disappear inside the building and I left.
“I drove home and worried about her. I couldn’t sleep, and I sat up most of the night thinking about her and about Maria and how she had no help when her kids were little. And I thought about Gabriella who did most of the work and had no help, either.
“Before my Washoe grandmother died, she taught me a little about how to weave grass. But when I wanted to try to weave the Washoe Star, I couldn’t find anything like those grass fibers. So I learned to soak floor brooms. After a few days I could use the bristles. For dies I used ink. My first three were terrible. On my fourth try I started to get the technique.
“I knew if I could make it beautiful, it would engage the Guardian Spirit and help protect the girl. So I put the Washoe Star in an envelope and waited near her apartment building. The second day the cab dropped her off. I followed at a distance, inside and up the stairs. I think she saw me. Maybe she was worried. But I saw which door she went in.
“The next morning, I went back into the apartment building and slipped the envelope under her door.”
Bill stopped talking. He seemed embarrassed. Exhausted.
“What else was in the envelope?”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw you put an envelope under one of the doors. It was thicker than the star. You could barely get it under the door.”
Bill’s jaw muscles bulged. “I wrapped the star in some money.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“So this is private charity.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s enough to help with groceries or rent. Not enough to get into real trouble.”
“Because they remind you of Maria.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve had no other contact with the girls?”
“No. I follow them to see where they live. Then, when they are gone, I go back with the Washoe Star and money. I believe the star will help the most. I don’t know about the Guardian Spirit or Mother Nature or God, whatever you call it. But the amulet is handmade. Each one takes hours. It is one person bringing energy to another person in need. If she actually wears it, if she senses the time and energy that someone put into dyeing the fibers and weaving the designs, it will help her. I really believe that.”
“How many times do you bring each girl money?”
“I’ve only gone once to each girl.”
“How many girls?”
“Since I started last year?” Bill thought about it. “A little over thirty.”
“Thirty times five hundred each is fifteen thousand dollars.”
“I’ve done some real damage in the world,” Bill said. “I’m trying to make it a little better.”
I didn’t speak.
“Some people look at me and think I’ve got it all. A business and house near Houston, a house in Tahoe, money in the bank. Maybe they’ve got their own hell to live, but they’ll never know my hell because I can’t tell them. I killed my sister, and I sense that, in some critical way, I’m responsible for March’s death, too.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. I should have been more involved. A better role model. I could have taught him better judgement. Maria would have. But after I took her away from him and April, I didn’t step into the void. I should have quit the business, gotten a regular job with regular hours and raised those kids myself.” Bill took several deep breaths. “I read something once in a novel by John D. MacDonald. He had these characters, Travis and Meyer, and there was this thing called Meyer’s Law. It basically said that whenever someone is faced with a terrible emotional dilemma, the right course of action is the one that is the most difficult to take.
“I always took the easy way out. Still do. When April acted like a spoiled brat, I kicked her out instead of working with her. It was inconvenient to have her acting immature in my house. Much more convenient to send her into the street.
“Now March is dead, and she’s all I have. But she’s gone. And she despises me. When will I learn? I’m helping girls I’ve never met and letting my own niece flounder. Am I going to go to the grave being this stupid?” Bill stared at me. The flesh around his eyes was red and swollen.
“What are you going to do about it?” I asked.
It was a long moment before Bill spoke. “You think I should call her and apologize? Start over with her? But I don’t know if I can make myself say the words.”
“Meyer’s Law,” I said.
FORTY-TWO
After I left, I called information and asked for Terrance Burns. They didn’t have a listing. So I got the number for Angie’s Shape and Style, the hairdresser near Paul Riceman’s house.
“Angie,” a voice said. She was still chewing gum, smacking it loudly in my ear.
“Owen McKenna,” I said. “I stopped by there yesterday and talked to Terrance Burns.”
“Yeah, I remember. I was giving her the Chorus Girl tease. It’s one of my specialties, ki
nd of a local fave, actually. She told me what happened to that contractor. Imagine getting killed by a slide off your own house! That’s unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got another question for Terrance. Any idea how to reach her?”
“Well, I normally wouldn’t put you on to one of my customers, but I know she would have a hissy fit if I didn’t give you her number. Hold on, it’s in my appointment book.”
I heard the phone bang down. An old Kinks song thumped in the background. “Ready?” the gum-chewer smacked in my ear.
“Yeah.”
She gave me the number. “This is her work number, so get ready.”
“Thanks.”
I hung up and dialed.
“Northern Cal Trust Company,” a woman answered.
“May I speak to Terrance Burns, please.”
“I’m sorry, he’s with a client. Oh, hold on, it looks like he’s just finishing up.” She put me on hold. The music in the phone sounded like a Madonnawannabe but with an even flatter baby-girl voice.
“Terrance Burns,” a voice said, deeper than the previous Terrance Burns, no obvious inflection.
“Owen McKenna calling. Are you the Terrance Burns I spoke to the other day?”
“Yes, sir. Good to hear from you.” Then, in a softer voice that wouldn’t be overheard, “Trousers, wingtips, jock-type wig, suit and tie. I even talk sports. Hey, how ‘bout those forty-niners, huh?” Then, in an even quieter voice, he said, “That’s the one with the pointed ball, right?”
“The bifurcated life of a drag queen banker is confusing, huh?” I said.
“Let me tell you. Half the time I can’t even remember which way I’m dressing today. But the banker thing pays the bills, I’ll give it that. Oops, here comes the boss on his regular route.” He went back to the louder voice. “What can I do for you, Mr. Mc- Kenna? Are you still interested in that fifteen-year mortgage? I’m authorized to reduce the points to zero if you decide to lock in now.”
“I have a question about Paul Riceman.”
“Mortgages are confusing. Don’t hesitate to ask anything you like.”
“Did he ever mention taking an outdoor avalanche class?”
“Funny that you should ask that. Let me think. Yes, it was last fall, wasn’t it? November. I remember it was just after we’d gotten that first series of storms. In fact, we’ll still stay with the earlier rate quote.”
“Has Riceman acted strange or done anything unusual recently?
“Well, I kept wondering, why would he go to Utah a couple of weeks ago to visit the area where he used to be a ski instructor when we have so much more snow here? But I told him that if he finds property there, we can do mortgages out of state just as easily as in state.”
“What about someone known as the Guru of the Sierra?” I said.
“I recall hearing that. But you know how it is with a co-signer. At this point, I don’t know who it is. Until I know who it is, I can’t even make a preliminary judgment.”
“Did Paul ever mention anyone else who took the avalanche class?”
“I actually know a client in Truckee who fits the bill perfectly. She was a friend of Paul and got the same type of mortgage on our referral program. I’m sure she’s happy with it, but you are welcome to ask her yourself. Of course, you’ll understand our standard policy of not giving out phone numbers or addresses. But our referral program can be a nice little bonus to those who decide to participate. Let me look in my computer and see if she opted in after she got her mortgage. Well, wouldn’t you know, yes, she did. The way it works is like this. I can give you her first name, which is Amy, and her email address. You contact her and if you decide to go with us, she will get a sweet little check. Who knows, maybe she’ll take you out to dinner with it. Do you have a pen?” He read off the email address. Then his voice got quiet again. “I can talk normal, now. Write this down, too,” he said and read off Amy’s phone number.
“Another question?”
“Sure.”
“Did Paul ever talk about doing any avalanche control like ski patrollers do?”
“Not that I recall. But he learned about it in that class. He went on at some length about how they can use dynamite to start slides.”
“Thanks, Terrance. You’ve been more helpful than you know. And if I ever need a mortgage, I will call you first.”
“Honey, you need anything on Kingsbury Grade, I’m your girl.”
FORTY-THREE
I called Amy and made an appointment to meet her a few minutes after 4:00 p.m., the time she got off her shift at the supermarket in Truckee.
A young woman came into the coffeehouse on Truckee’s main street at five minutes after.
“Amy?”
She nodded as she looked at my bandage and frowned.
“Hi, I’m Owen McKenna. Thanks for meeting me.”
“Amy Brewer.” She shook my hand. “You’re a friend of Terrance’s?”
“He’s been very helpful,” I said. “She’s been.”
“Is she a dear, or what? Most men are such jerks. Why can’t more men be like her?”
“Got me there,” I said.
We sat at a table near the window. Amy got a fancy drink; I had black coffee. The snow had resumed and blew at a 45-degree angle, blurring the view of the buildings across the street. A steady stream of cars and trucks cruised down the street, wipers on, headlights on, chains clinking against fenders on the unfortunate cars without four-wheel-drive.
“Tell me about the Guru of the Sierra,” I said.
“He’s, like, kind of a strange dude,” Amy said. “I mean, I think he’s nice deep down, just very different. But he knows his stuff, I’ll give him that.” She had a straw in her drink. She pulled it out with her lips and used her fingers to steer the bottom of the straw around the top of her drink. She carefully sucked up the foam that wanted to roll down the outside of the cup. The noise was irritating. An elderly woman at the next table stared, her lips pinched.
“How did the class work?”
“The class I took was, like, three years ago. We met at the park here in town. They have this little area with three park benches and that was our classroom. Can you believe it? But I guess it makes sense because we only met there twice, and the rest of the time our meetings were up on the mountain.”
“How long did the class last?”
“Six straight days. Monday through Saturday.”
“How many students?”
“There were six of us in the class. I remember because Claude – that’s the guy’s name – he would say things like, ‘come, my little six-pack, and let me show you the ways of the snow gods.’”
“Claude’s last name?” I asked.
“Sisuug. Claude Sisuug. I remember because he told us this whole story that included his name.”
“Do you remember it?”
“More or less. See, he’s a pretty wild guy with one of those real big personalities.” Amy sucked the rest of the foam off her drink. “You know how sometimes you meet a group of people and afterward you just keep thinking about one person? Not because you’re attracted to them or anything, but because they sort of command everyone’s attention? That’s how Claude was in our class. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and go over everything he said, just because he was so out there.
“Plus, he’s kind of passive-aggressive. It goes on and off like a switch. You never know when he’s going to erupt, so you kind of pay attention just because of that. He even has one blue eye and one brown eye. It went with his personality. Anyway, back to his name. Claude’s father was Eskimo and his mother was a French-Canadian who had moved from Montreal to their little village in Northwest Canada to teach.
“He told us that Sisuug is an Inuit name that means snowslide. During our first class he described how an avalanche had struck his parents as they snow-shoed across a slope not far from the cabin where they lived in the Yukon. The snow ripped baby Claude from the sling on his mother’s fro
nt, and - while they all survived - the impact turned Claude’s left eye from the deep brown of the Inuit to the soft cerulean blue of his French-Canadian mother. I still remember him saying that. Cerulean. What a great word for blue, huh? Anyway, can you believe that? I can’t believe that. But that’s what he said. Who knows? Maybe it’s true.”
“How did you find out about this class?” I asked.
“Claude put a note up on the bulletin board at work. He sometimes shops at the store. Not real often, but just to get basics. You should see what he buys. Bulk oatmeal, bulk flour, bulk sugar, bulk granola. Salt, sausage, jerky. God, no lattes for him. And candles. He bought lots of candles. He’s like the pioneers or something. He carries all his groceries in a big pack. I think he owns a truck, but I don’t think he uses it much.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“I’ve heard rumors that he lives in a mountain man cabin in the Granite Chief Wilderness. You can’t drive there.”
“Near Squaw Valley?” I said.
“Behind there. Between Squaw and Sugarbowl, I think. He mountain-bikes in and out during the summer. One time in the winter he came to our store on his backcountry skis. Like he’d skied all the way. Imagine that.”
“How did the class work?” I asked.
“You mean structure and stuff?” Amy mumbled as she sucked at her drink. “Well, when we met at the park for the first two classes, he went over academic avalanche stuff. He called it avalanche science. After the first two classes, we started meeting up on the mountain. We went to this place off Donner Summit. It was a long way to ski up there from the parking area. We had four classes up there doing hands-on stuff.”
“Can you remember what you studied?”
“Oh sure. Claude had a way, you know? He was so wild about it that it stuck in your brain. Plus, I’m a good student. I got nothing but As and Bs at the community college. I took nursing prep classes. Biology and chemistry. I might go down to Sac State and get a degree.”
