Stillriver

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘Hi Steve. You want a drink?’ When Steve looked at Michael’s glass of bourbon, Michael said, ‘There’s iced tea if you want it.’ He was doubly embarrassed: to be found drinking in the middle of the day was bad enough, but it seemed especially shameful to be discovered by a former rummy.

  ‘Thanks. I just had some lemonade.’ Steve sat down at the kitchen table and put down an envelope. ‘We’ve had a reply,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘My letters to that postal box in Detroit,’ he said, his tone indicating he felt Michael should have known. He pushed the envelope towards Michael. ‘Go on, read it.’

  Michael picked it up and extracted a single sheet of paper, on which was typed neatly:

  Dear Mr Atkinson,

  A thousand apologies for not writing before but I have not been myself altogether well (hospital) and only just am recovered enough to write you back.

  I was so shocked to hear of Henry’s awful murder. Please tell me as any progress by the police is made.

  Now to business. I will need to explain the situation and would like to see the sons of Henry in person, assuming they are available (I don’t even know their names!!). I would plan to arrive in the next week or so – God willing my health allows – and will phone you beforehand. No need to worry about hotels – my great nephew will find one for me on the internet!!

  Yours sincerely

  Patricia Minsky

  ‘We’ve found her,’ said Michael.

  ‘It’s more like she’s found us. Look at the letter.’

  Michael looked questioningly at Atkinson, who said, ‘See any return address on it?’

  Michael shook his head, then examined the envelope. Nothing there either. ‘Jesus. You think this is for real? Or some kind of joke?’ For he had begun to think that if he didn’t find his brother soon or uncover any real leads about his father’s murder, he would have to go to Detroit. And do what? He knew no one in that city, and knew nothing about his father’s life there over fifty years before. But now it seemed the life was coming to him in the almost mythical figure of Patsy. Unless the letter was a hoax.

  Steve lifted a big hand like a traffic cop. ‘Don’t get down about it. Chances are she’s just real old – at least that’s how it reads to me. So keep your fingers crossed.’ He looked at Michael’s glass. ‘I wouldn’t mind that iced tea now.’

  Spring Valley would have been called a hamlet if its inhabitants had used the word, for it was a scratchy collection of half a dozen houses, a gun shop that sold game and fishing licences, and the eponymous tavern, behind which sat a disused one-room schoolhouse, superseded decades before by the advent of school buses to ferry the few children to the schools in Walkerville. It was in the old playground of the school that the local Marines barbecue was being held.

  Known as The Fights, the tavern itself was not a place that in their younger years either Donny or Michael had thought it prudent to frequent, since anyone with long hair, dark skin, an educated way of speaking, or just the possessor of a face someone didn’t like, would not often stay unmolested for long.

  They were early, and decided to go inside out of the bright sunshine for a beer, Donny with some reluctance. They stood against the long, battered pine bar, drinking bottles of Stroh’s, alone in the room except for a farmer eating a microwaved hotdog by the window, and the bartender, who mopped the floor with a laxity born of knowing that in twelve hours’ time he would have to mop it again.

  ‘You know,’ said Michael, ‘my father used to stop here sometimes when he’d been out at the Half. I always thought he was crazy, but it must be different during the day. I guess the only trouble here’s at night.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  Three cars pulled up at once outside the tavern, and their occupants got out and walked around the tavern to the playground behind. ‘Shall we go now?’ asked Michael.

  ‘In a minute. First tell me one more time just what you’re hoping to accomplish.’

  Michael sighed, for he wasn’t entirely certain himself. ‘I thought I’d ask Raleigh if he knows where Gary is. I’m pretty sure he’ll say no, but I want to ask him anyway. And I’d like to get a feel for what this organization of his is like. Kenny Williams made him out to be crazy. I’d like to see if that’s the case. But there’s no reason to get all agitated. I’m sure most of these people are pretty normal.’

  ‘I’m not concerned about these people.’ Donny drained his bottle of beer and put it gently on the bar. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll behave.’

  ‘You used to be Mr Easy Going. I’m not so sure any more.’

  If he had hoped for manifest evidence of extremism, Michael was immediately disappointed. It was just an ordinary barbecue, it seemed to him, with a lady in baggy green shorts selling tickets from a table at the near end of the playground. They paid, and waited in line for hamburgers and corn. There was only soda to drink.

  There was no sign of Raleigh, and though Donny nodded at a few faces, Michael knew no one there. They ate their hamburgers standing up, as the men – Back Country types, from the looks of their overalls and work boots – talked in small groups among themselves, their wives sat at picnic tables and the kids played on the swings and jungle bars of the playground.

  Then suddenly he saw Raleigh, tall and muscled in green fatigues and a white T-shirt with lettering on it. Next to him was a short, middle-aged man with curly ginger hair, dapper in a maroon sports jacket, white shirt, and brown tie. The two of them stood on the edge of the playground, talking intently. Then Michael saw Raleigh signal to somebody in the crowd, a spoon was rapped against a glass, and the crowd grew quiet as the mothers hushed the playing children.

  Raleigh held up his hand for silence and Raleigh’s companion moved towards the crowd of guests. The man had a pie-shaped face with wide, flat cheeks and small eyes. The effect was of an odd Scandinavian-Asiatic mix, like a Swede with Inuit blood. But when he opened his mouth the slight oddness of his face was forgotten in the mesmerizing appeal of his voice. For though pitched a little higher than average, it was buttery smooth, with crooner-like modulation and a timbre the aural equivalent of velvet.

  ‘Hi everybody, I’m Herman Kohls of the Wayne County branch of the Michigan Marines, and I’d like to thank you all for having me here today. A television reporter was trying to interview me last week – I say trying because I’ve learned they’re always going to twist whatever you say – and he asked me where I would be going this weekend. When I explained that I’d be travelling up here, he said, “That seems a far way to go for a barbecue”.’

  There were easygoing chuckles at this, and one of the wives at the picnic tables clapped.

  ‘But the fact is, I wouldn’t miss the chance to meet you for all the television reporters in the world. And I hope I’ll get the chance to visit with each and every one of you this afternoon and thank you for your support.

  ‘You know, this country was founded by small communities like this one. Rural, farm communities with people who had fled oppressive governments and were determined to lead their own lives with their own religion, their own families, free from interference. These are values we all share, and I think that more than ever it’s important that those of us who share these values seek each other out.

  ‘Somebody once asked “What’s in a name?” I’d say quite a lot, for if I were going to put a name to what unites us, I’d say that we are Christian Patriots. Capital C, capital P, and they sure don’t stand for Communist Party. I think we know too who our enemies are, and I don’t mean rowdy neighbours next door.

  ‘But I’m here to listen to you, not to lecture you – that’s the last thing you need on a bright sunny day like this one. So I want you to enjoy yourselves, and remember what binds us all together. And for you men, our next training session, Raleigh here tells me, will be Thursday night, out at Scotch Haven – have I got that right, Raleigh? Good. Now let’s bow our heads for a m
inute and say thanks and then . . . let’s eat!’

  After this, someone brought Kohls a plate of food, and he stood holding it with one hand while the men in the crowd gradually went up to him one by one to pay court and say hello. Raleigh stood next to him, making introductions, and Kohls was uniformly cordial, greeting people as if he had met them before. He exuded the air of a cheerful undertaker at a local party, where everyone was a potential customer.

  Seeing an opening, Michael went over, closely followed by Donny. This close up, he could read the words on Raleigh’s T-shirt: The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants – Thomas Jefferson.

  ‘Hello, Raleigh. Remember me?’

  Raleigh looked at him suspiciously. ‘Can’t say I do.’

  ‘I’m Michael Wolf. Gary’s brother.’

  Raleigh looked startled by this but didn’t respond. Michael asked, ‘Is Gary here today? I was hoping to see him.’

  Raleigh shook his head emphatically. Michael turned to Kohls. ‘Hi, Mr Kohls, I’m Michael Wolf and I wanted to say hello.’

  ‘Herman, call me Herman.’ He seemed to sense something was amiss. ‘Are you from around here, Mr Wolf?’

  ‘Born and bred. But I’ve been working overseas for the last few years.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to see the world, I’m sure, but nothing beats Michigan. What’s home base for you now?’

  ‘England. I work out of London.’

  Kohls nodded neutrally, but seemed to digest this carefully. ‘I hear they’ve got some problems over there too.’

  No, Michael wanted to say, Utopia has been discovered and it’s in Ealing. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked, keeping his tone cheerful.

  ‘There’s a coloured problem there too, isn’t there now? Not so bad as here.’ He looked at Raleigh briefly and gave a small smile. ‘That’s because they haven’t got so many to contend with.’ He laughed at this, a sharp cackle. The mask of undertaker’s unctuousness had slipped, replaced by an embalmer’s cocky certainty that his clients were in no position to complain.

  Michael said, ‘I think it’s fair to say the royal family has yet to be integrated. Still lily white as far as I can tell.’

  ‘That depends on how you define lily white. There’s a Hebrew strain in there somewhere, according to what I read.’

  What was it Sarah had laughed about? For all her comparative sophistication, she had been a gushing fan of the British royals, especially Princess Di. Hadn’t Princess Anne married someone who was one thirty-second Jewish? Or a sixty-fourth? Enough blood at any rate to warrant a mention in the English press. But this couldn’t be what Kohls had in mind. ‘Since they’re head of the national church,’ said Michael, unsure about the correct nomenclature, ‘I think it’s pretty unlikely they’re Jewish. If that’s what you mean by Hebrew.’

  ‘Hebrew, Jewish, the Chosen people – call them whatever you like. Funny things about the Jews. If they’re so special, why do they hide it all the time?’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Well, take that royal family over there. They’re called Windsor now, aren’t they? But they didn’t used to be. If you look carefully – they don’t publicize this much themselves – they used to be called Saxe-Coburg.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘A Jewish name, I think you will find.’

  ‘I thought it was German,’ he said, vaguely remembering some reference by Sarah to the Queen’s German ancestry. One of the minor royals, to Sarah’s intense disappointment, had turned out to have a Nazi father.

  ‘If it was just German, then why change it?’

  ‘The English did fight two wars with the Germans.’

  ‘Nah,’ said Kohls dismissively. ‘Sachs – that’s Jewish. Coberg, that sounds pretty Jewish to me.’

  This reasoning occupied Michael momentarily; he had too little knowledge of the royals to be on firm ground disputing it. Then a larger sense of absurdity overwhelmed him, and to Kohl’s obvious surprise and Raleigh’s disapproval he burst out laughing. ‘That’s crazy,’ he said, suddenly sobering up.

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m a liar?’ Kohls asked coldly, his voice suddenly a full octave lower. Michael realized others were now watching them.

  ‘No sir,’ said Michael in a folksy, Back Country way. He paused to heighten the effect. ‘Just an idiot.’

  ‘What are you?’ Kohls demanded. ‘A reporter?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘I’m a civil engineer.’ When Kohls looked sceptical, Michael gestured at Donny, who was still standing behind him, looking increasingly uncomfortable. ‘Ask him, he’ll tell you.’

  ‘If you’re not a reporter then what are you? Why are you here?’ A light bulb seemed to go on in Kohls’ head, for he suddenly looked triumphant. ‘Are you one of those anti-defamation boys? If you are, you’re a long way from home.’

  ‘I told you, I’m from around here. Stillriver-born and bred. My father taught school here.’ Michael pointed at Raleigh. ‘He even tried to teach this guy here, though my father was forced to admit defeat. He said that when the Lord was passing out brains, young Raleigh must have stepped out for a beer.’

  Kohls could not suppress a giggle, but Raleigh’s expression froze. ‘You know,’ Raleigh said slowly, ‘I didn’t like your father and I didn’t like you. I still don’t like you.’

  ‘Meaning you’ve grown fonder of my father?’

  Kohls laughed again at this, which seemed to anger Raleigh even more. Kohls said, ‘Son, you make me laugh. You must be a Jew. You even talk like one.’

  Raleigh looked at Donny. ‘Washington,’ he said, ‘take your smart-ass friend and go.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Donny, with obvious relief.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Kohls,’ said Michael, sticking out his hand, but Kohls, as if sensing trouble, had already moved on to greet a more promising group of supplicants. Good to see you, how you doing?

  Raleigh called out sharply in the direction of the tavern. ‘Barry! Hey, Barry! Come here a minute.’

  Donny began walking fast towards the front of the tavern and Michael struggled to keep up. Donny turned and looked behind them, then murmured, ‘Hurry,’ in a low, tense voice.

  ‘What’s the problem? Raleigh’s not going to do anything now.’ He too looked back and saw a familiar figure leave Raleigh and run into the back of the tavern. He recognized the figure’s face. ‘It’s asshole mouth,’ he told Donny.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why is he here?’ Michael wondered out loud.

  ‘Tell me later,’ said Donny. ‘Let’s go.’

  Michael followed him to the truck but took his time getting in, even after Donny had started the engine. He refused to be cowed by Raleigh Somerset.

  ‘Come on,’ Donny pleaded, just as Barry – Michael was relieved not to have to think of him as asshole mouth any more – came out of the tavern’s front door. He was wearing a football shirt with 88 emblazoned on it and carried a shotgun, broken at the breech, but with the brass tops of two loaded shells clearly visible. He stared at Michael, and when he started to come down the tavern’s front steps, Michael’s bravado dissolved, and he jumped into the truck and slammed his door just before Donny pulled out sharply, spraying dust behind them.

  Donny was furious. ‘Shit, you remind me of Kenny Williams, pulling that kind of smart-ass act.’

  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘What was the point of all that?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you agree with that guy back there?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Donny with obvious frustration as he took a bend in the road at high speed, the wheels slipping slightly on the gravel. ‘But why stir things up? I don’t want anything to do with it.’ He sighed as he looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Not that it looks like I have a choice any more. Thanks to you.’

  Michael turned his head and looked back in time to see a red Trans Am slip sideways at the same bend behind, straighten and continue at high speed towards them. ‘Shit, you recko
n that’s Barry behind us? The guy with the shotgun?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Donny, craning his neck for a better view in the mirror. ‘Though I’m pretty sure they’re just trying to scare us.’

  ‘They’re doing a good job, I have to say.’

  Donny nodded, biting down on his lower lip and concentrating on driving. ‘The problem is, their idea of scaring us – just funning,’ he said in a hick drawl, ‘could just get us killed. Buckshot’s buckshot, whether they’re aiming deliberately or not.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘I want to get off this road. He’s slowed down a bit, probably because he thinks he knows where we’re heading. If I go straight at the Hesperia Road he’ll figure we’re heading for Stillriver. There’s a short cut through Black Lake he might take to cut us off at Four Corners. So,’ said Donny, ‘we’ll fool him and go east. Away from Stillriver.’

  ‘Back by the Half?’

  ‘Exactly.’ And then Donny looked at Michael and they both nodded simultaneously. ‘Let’s go there,’ said Michael.

  As predicted, when Donny went straight at the Hesperia Road, the Trans Am veered sharply right, towards Black Lake. Donny slowed the truck gradually, all the time scanning the mirror, then did a series of three-point turns until they were heading back the way they came. A right, followed by a left, and they were on the old sand road, still unpaved after all these years, that went by the Half.

  ‘Slow down,’ said Michael, ‘it’s been years since I was there and I’m not sure I’ll know the turn.’ But he recognized the dip they slowly descended, for there was a highway sign saying DANGER: FLOODING, and he remembered how a prolonged spell of rain would cover this part of the road in water. The stand of poplars was still there, though now full-grown, casting shade over the road.

  He peered carefully ahead. ‘There!’ he suddenly shouted, and Donny pulled sharply left, onto a track now almost completely overgrown with ferns. After the first bend he had Donny stop the truck. ‘Come help me,’ he said, and they both got out and walked back to the road. Donny had a pocket knife and started cutting swathes of the ferns. He handed a bunch to Michael, stem first, then cut himself another bouquet and they both used the ferns to sweep away the telltale tyre tracks that revealed where they had turned off. After a minute they stood and examined the road. ‘That should do it,’ said Michael.