by Sam Reaves
Behind its forbidding façade, the Masonic Temple on Main Street was just a big room, like the rental hall in Chelsea where Samantha and Tom had been married. Abby surrendered her ticket at the door to the ballroom and went in to join the throng. At one end of the room was a low stage on which several Mexican men with odd-looking undersized guitars were pumping out twangy up-tempo music. At the other end open doors revealed a kitchen; a buffet had been set up and ranks of tables filled the center of the room.
The company was heavily Mexican, with a scattering of upscale Anglo types. Abby drifted, looking for familiar faces, smiling when smiled at and feeling conspicuous. Still guilty about crashing the benefit with her free ticket, she was desperately searching the silent auction offerings arrayed on tables along one wall for something she could bid on when a voice just behind her said, “If I’d known you were coming we could have carpooled.”
Startled, she turned to see Ned McLaren. Tonight he was looking trim and suave in a cream-colored sport jacket over a green T-shirt that set off his eyes. “I walked,” said Abby. “I thought about driving my new car over, but it seemed kind of silly. It’s not that far.”
“Nothing’s that far in this town,” said McLaren. “What brings you here?”
“You know Natalia, the girl at the Poza Rica?”
“Never been in there.”
“She gave me a ticket. What about you? Why are you here?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t doing anything else tonight. And a friend of mine kind of runs the thing. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” He put his hand on Abby’s arm briefly to steer her toward the back of the room, where a knot of people had gathered near a drinks table. They were evidently the VIP posse, all older and fairly prosperous looking, some Latino and some Anglo, the men in suits and the women in outfits they had not acquired at Walmart. A tall, well-fed Anglo who was compensating for his retreating hairline by cultivating a neat line of beard along his jaw turned at McLaren’s touch. “Ned, hey.”
“Everett, let me introduce you to my tenant.”
“Please do.” The tall man beamed at her, extending his hand. “Everett Elford.”
His handshake was firm; his look was appreciative, and Abby was, as always, gratified. “I’m Abigail Markstein. Pleased to meet you.”
“You’re living in Ned’s basement, huh? I hope he’s not charging you too much.” Elford’s beard was gray and his eyes behind black-rimmed glasses were brown. He looked like a man who enjoyed a good meal and a good laugh.
“It’s a pretty nice basement, actually,” said Abby. “No complaints.”
McLaren said, “It’s not like the basement in the old house where we used to shoot BB guns at the mice.”
Elford laughed. “I don’t think we ever hit any. But that light bulb made a pretty great noise when you shot it out.”
McLaren laughed. “Boy, did I catch hell for that.”
“You guys must go back a long way,” said Abby.
“Third grade,” said Elford.
“Second,” said McLaren. “Miss Hall’s class. You had just moved into the mansion on Maple.”
“OK, second. I taught Ned here how to ride a bike.”
“The hell you did. I seem to recall my dad pulling your bike out of Mrs. Dick’s fishpond.”
They laughed, and Elford slapped McLaren on the back. To Abby he said, “Here, let me introduce you to some people,” bringing her into the group. “This is Emilio Azuela, president of LUCES.” Abby’s eyebrows rose as she recognized the man who had come out of the office at the Azteca with Jud Frederick a couple of days before. Azuela nodded and smiled but made no sign he recognized her. His wife was at his side, a dark-eyed former beauty carrying extra weight, though gracefully, in early middle age. “And this is Ron Ingstrom, who’s come all the way from Indianapolis for some good Mexican food.” Ingstrom was short and burly, his tie constricting a thick neck. He had given into baldness by shaving his head completely. “Ron’s the governor’s right-hand man,” said Elford. “If we show him a good enough time tonight we hope he’ll drop a few coins in our hat.” This brought a laugh but Elford didn’t linger, moving on to a gaunt white-haired man in a black suit and clerical collar whom he introduced as “Father Pete McGrath from Saint Benedict’s.” Father Pete bowed gravely. “Father Pete’s had to learn Spanish so he can talk with his parishioners. He’ll be delivering the keynote address tonight, in Spanish.” Father Pete shook his head in good-natured denial, while Azuela burst out in wild laughter, leading Abby to suspect he had been exposed to the priest’s Spanish.
Abby said, “So tell me what LUCES does.”
Elford said, “Lots of things. We’ve set up ESL courses, job counseling and training. Child care, after-school programs. We’ve endowed scholarships and we’ve got volunteers to help kids through the college application process. Education’s a big focus. A lot of times Mexican kids who grow up here are the first generation to get more than rudimentary schooling. We’ve done some good work.”
“That’s impressive.”
“And we just try to bring people together.” Elford looked toward the stage, where the musicians were working up a sweat. “It’s good to see people mixing, having fun.”
“Especially now,” said Azuela.
There was an uncomfortable silence. “Yeah,” said Elford. “Especially now, with this murder.”
Azuela said, “Which they say it was Mexicans that did it, with no evidence.”
The man from Indianapolis said, “What do they base that on?”
Elford traded a look with Azuela and said, “I don’t know. I don’t think they’re sure of anything. I talked to the chief the other day. I think he’s aware of the danger of getting people stirred up.”
Azuela frowned. “Did you see Frederick on TV today?”
Elford shook his head. “I heard about it.” To Abby’s puzzled look he said, “Jud Frederick was interviewed by a station in Lafayette this morning. He said some things you might consider a little provocative. Like how the Mexicans had brought in drugs and crime and it was time to crack down on illegal immigrants.”
“Not very helpful,” said the priest.
“Not in the current climate, no.”
Azuela’s wife shifted things abruptly by commenting on the music and Elford managed to detach Abby and McLaren again. “Let’s skedaddle before they bring up Menéndez. I don’t feel like having a discussion about undocumented workers tonight.”
“Yours are all documented, of course,” said McLaren.
Elford bristled, just a little. “We do what we can, Ned. We don’t have the resources to run thorough checks on everybody who applies for a job. If a guy shows up with a social security card, we’ll hire him. They’re good workers and they deserve a decent day’s pay and we give it to them.”
Abby said, “So how did you get involved in all this?”
Elford shrugged. “Noblesse oblige, my wife calls it.”
McLaren rolled his eyes. “He means he employs a lot of Mexicans.”
“And good old native-soil Hoosiers, too. I’ve got plenty of those.” He turned to Abby. “I have a farming operation in the north part of the county. So yeah, I’ve got a number of Mexican employees.”
Just then Natalia emerged from the crowd, dressed to the nines in a tight blue dress and looking fabulous. “Abby! You came.”
“Of course I came. Wouldn’t miss it.”
The men were ogling; Abby introduced her to them, and then Natalia pulled her away with an apology. “I want you to meet my mom.” Abby spent the next half hour meeting Mom and various female relatives, only a few of whom spoke English. Dad was not in evidence, and Abby wondered if he was in jail or merely in disgrace. Nor was there any sign of the refractory brother. There were other young Mexican guys present, some of them with the same borderline gangster look, though without Luis’s sullen demeanor.
The music wound up, there was much applause, and dinner was announced. Going with the flow toward the buffet, A
bby ran into Lisa Beth, standing near the entrance. “Good Lord,” Lisa Beth said. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same.”
“Me? I’m working. I’m covering this gala event for the Herald Gazette. It’s not the White House correspondents’ dinner but it’s what I have. Aha, the lord of the manor is here, I see.” She was looking at Everett Elford at the back of the room.
“Oh, I met him. Why the lord of the manor?”
“Well, I would say Everett Elford’s probably the richest man in the county. He’s a philanthropist and a pillar of the community.”
“Where does the money come from?”
“Land. The Elfords have owned land around here for a long time. A lot of land. And the bank there on Main Street. Everett’s dad left him with a pretty good empire, and Everett has a law degree and an MBA, so he’s taken pretty good care of it. I think the next move for Everett is, he’s probably going to run for Congress one of these days. My God, is that Ron Ingstrom next to him?”
“Yeah, I think that was the name I heard.”
“Well, that does it. Now I know he’s running for Congress. Or something, anyway. Ingstrom’s probably the top Republican political fixer in the state. If he’s here, it means Everett’s made Golden Boy status. Good for him.” Lisa Beth smiled. “Excuse me, will you? I have to go do a little discreet ass kissing.”
Abby joined the line for the buffet, feeling abandoned; she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the rest of her evening eating with strangers. She was rescued by Ned McLaren, who came by with a full plate and said, “I’ll save you a spot over there,” pointing to a table.
When they got there, she and Ned were the only English speakers at the table. After some earnest greetings all around, everybody tucked in to dinner, the Mexicans reverting to Spanish, leaving Ned and Abby tête-à-tête.
“So your friend’s kind of a big shot around here, huh?”
“Everett? He’s a local VIP, yeah. But to me he’ll always be the kid who had the first Atari console on the block.”
Abby laughed. “It’s nice that you kept in touch.”
“We didn’t, really. I was gone for a long time. We just kind of reconnected since I came back last year.”
Abby poked at her shellfish and rice with a fork. “Where were you all that time? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Ned shrugged. “Africa, mostly.” Abby waited while he ate. Just when she had decided that was all she was going to get, he swallowed, looked up and said, “I was a mining engineer. I worked in a few different places. Mostly in central Africa. Extracting coltan, cobalt, copper. I spent about fifteen years out there altogether. Kind of a rough lifestyle, though the furloughs were generous. And the money was good. But I finally got tired of it and quit, came back with some decent savings and a desire to do nothing much for a while.” He smiled. “Which ambition I have fulfilled.”
Just a touch disingenuously, fishing, Abby said, “You seem to keep busy.”
“The house kept me busy for a while. But it’s pretty much done. And honestly? I don’t know how long the excitement of life in Lewisburg, Indiana, is going to be enough for me. I can feel the wanderlust starting to stir again. But I’m probably good for another year or two here, anyway. Meanwhile I want to see if I can get my 5K time down under twenty minutes. Speaking of projects.”
“That would be respectable.” Go for it, she thought. “Could I take you up on your offer to run with me some time? I’d really love to get back on the road, but I don’t want to do it alone.”
“Sure.” He gave her a brief, appraising look. “Tomorrow morning?”
“Name a time,” she said.
Running for the first time with a new partner had aspects of a first date; this occurred to Abby despite her resistance to any and all thoughts in that direction. Don’t go too fast, don’t let things drag; try to impress him without strutting your stuff too obviously, find a mutual comfort zone.
Ned led her south along Jackson out of town, past the mall, past the high school, past the windowless Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses sitting like a bunker in the middle of its parking lot. When they were free of the town he turned onto an asphalt road that led west.
They had agreed that he would set the pace, being possibly the lesser runner. Abby was so glad to be released from the prison of the track that she was for once unconcerned about pace or mile times. It was a joy to be moving. After the first couple of miles Abby was aware that had she been on her own, she would probably have been pushing it a little harder, but not by much.
The land sank toward Shawnee Creek and the road dipped into a zone of mixed farm and woodland, patches of pasture with a few cows, half-hidden in the trees, lonely houses secluded at the end of long gravel drives. Ned took her south onto a road that then curved back east away from the creek, and they climbed, laboring a little, back up into the corn and bean fields. They came to an intersection and Ned pointed to the right. They turned and the road stretched out ahead, running straight south for a mile or more, past a couple of farmsteads.
Neither of them had spoken, but now Ned gasped out, “Push it a little? To the silo?”
“OK.” Abby located the silo two hundred yards ahead and kicked it up a gear. As she pulled slowly ahead she thought, here we go, this is the test. This will determine if we can train together. She concentrated on her form, working hard now, approaching the pace she would have tried to maintain in a race, feeling how much she had declined from competitive condition. She passed the silo and slowed, hearing Ned’s footsteps a few yards behind her. He drew even with her within a hundred feet and settled in at her shoulder again.
After that it was work. He led her on a circuit back to town, turning east on a road that dipped into a glade and tested them a little on the mild hill beyond, then turning north for the gut-check stretch back into town. Abby was working but still had reserves; she could tell that Ned was laboring now, head down, feet starting to slap a little as his stride deteriorated, but refusing to give in. Abby was now setting the pace.
Etiquette, thought Abby. You don’t want to show him up.
He asked for it, she thought in the next moment. She held the pace.
They came in from the east, hit Jackson just north of the mall, and then it was blessedly downhill to the entrance to Hickory Lane, with the short sharp uphill stretch through the trees hitting them hard at the end. Abby could not resist pushing it a little, reaching the driveway of 6 Hickory Lane ahead of her landlord. She slowed to a walk and kept moving, hands on hips; he caught up and together they walked, recovering, to the end of the lane, around the turnaround and back.
“You made me work,” Ned said hoarsely as they turned up the drive.
In Abby’s experience guys could be weird about getting outrun by a woman. Some of them were good sports and some weren’t. Abby waited for the excuse: I’m nursing an injury; I’ve been too busy to run; ten years ago I would have beaten you.
It never came. When he reached the porch Ned turned and smiled at her and said, “I hope I didn’t hold you back too much.”
Abby shook her head. “It was good. Thanks.”
“You want to go again, let me know.”
“I will.”
“Have a good one.” Ned opened his door and went inside with no further ceremony.
OK, thought Abby. What were you expecting, a good-night kiss? She went down the stone steps at the side of the house.
For a first date, she thought, not too bad.
Frat house row was along South Street just west of the campus, a three-block stretch where a half-dozen grand old houses had had fire escapes and large Greek letters tacked on to them to convert them to communal residences, designed to cultivate character and scholarship in the inmates.
“It’s been four years since we had a death from alcohol poisoning at one of these houses,” said Graham, slowing and putting on his turn signal. “I’d say we’re about due for another one.”
Abby gave it a
nervous laugh. She had been just a trifle suspicious that Graham was secretly behind the invitation from the start, but she had been unable to think of a plausible reason to decline the ride he had offered.
The Tau Kappa Zeta house was the last one in the row on the south side of the street. It was a three-story brick pile, a mansion by local standards, with a white-columned portico in front that gave it the air of a poor man’s plantation house, minus the long avenue of live oaks. Graham pulled into a driveway that led along the side of the house to a gravel parking lot behind it, where a motley collection of a dozen or so cars sat. Behind the lot the ground fell away steeply into thick woods.
“These things can be excruciating if they’re trying too hard to impress you,” said Graham as they walked back along the side of the house toward the front door. “And I’ve had a few students try to use the occasion to butter me up for a better grade. But it can also be a lot of fun.”
“How’s the food?” Abby asked, stifling a sense of dread.
“The food is edible. They have a hired cook who usually produces something you can get down without too much trouble.”
“That’s certainly what I look for in a meal.”
Inside, things were not as bad as she had feared. Abby was relieved to see that there were at least half a dozen women there, girlfriends no doubt, in skirts or dresses. The jocks had all dressed up to varying degrees, the tie being the common element, clashing in some instances with jeans and tennis shoes. The big front room in which they were received with handshakes and iced tea was handsome, with elegant woodwork, the paint a little battered in places but no actual holes in the wall. The furniture bore signs of wear and abuse, but the house had been tidied and a general air of civility prevailed.
