That’s what I’d thought we were doing. Ada hadn’t really had responsibilities here, though. She’d had chains. The only thing that kept her anchored to this town, besides me, was the waitressing job she kept for the sole purpose of finding her way out of here. And maybe habit. I often think people discount the imperative of habit. So many people just seem to grow old and die repeating themselves over and over.
Suddenly, I was irrationally angry at art schools for being so damn expensive. I wished desperately, selfishly, that I hadn’t been the only concrete block tied to her foot in this black, black lake.
I could have helped her, but she wouldn’t let me. In hindsight, that seemed like a pretty clear sign that she hadn’t wanted to be too bound up in me, in us, in anything that felt like obligation. At the time, I’d only been that much more besotted with her. How could you not love a butterfly who believed she could fly the currents with the eagles, who had no fear of ever shredding her wings?
I might never be someone else, but that morning I needed to be somewhere else.
After throwing my snowshoes, heavy coat, and gloves into the back of the car, I drove to Grand Mesa. It was spring down there on the western slope, but I knew from long experience that Grand Mesa was likely to be snow-packed for a few weeks yet. I was not disappointed in my expectations.
There were only a couple of other cars in the visitor parking lot. I wasn’t surprised. Of all the tourist destinations in Colorado, Grand Mesa isn’t the top of the list for most people at the best of times. Sure, there is a steady stream of traffic in the summer, but nothing to compete with Rocky or Durango or even Mesa Verde. Throw in five-foot walls of snow, and you are pretty much guaranteed to have the place to yourself.
I strapped on my snowshoes, grabbed my poles and pack, and headed out in the general direction of the trailhead I knew was buried under the white stuff somewhere. I couldn’t come here too often. It was the silence that drew me to this place, to all the places where people flee from themselves and the marks they make.
It staggered me every time. Some people are amazed by the peaks, by the strange formations shaped by rivers and winds. For me, it was that quietude speaking of the patience of the earth. I could hear the earth breathing, slow, steady inhales and exhales that were older and richer than any imaginings. There I could have died without remark, could have bled out in the snow without any of the hysteria and panic that death brings in the city. Just the quiet unaffected witnesses whose regard would have brought me nearer to belonging than I could ever approach in the strange and false constructs of society and all her noises.
There I could live, for a few moments, anyway, tied to my own existence by the slenderest of threads. The draw of breath, the strain of muscle, the grip of my snowshoe on the icy trail. Each second its own, its only security. All the filth and undefined shame of everyday existence dropped away, cleansed by the sheer severity of that place. I was baptized in the solitude and the cold.
That’s the danger of Grand Mesa and other places like it. The farther I got from the cobbled-together definition of myself that held my place in that other world, the harder it was to find my way back. The harder to even look for the path. It was no mystery to me that search-and-rescue regularly brought bodies down from some of the most beautiful vistas in the state.
But I disappointed myself, as I always do.
I came back down, unstrapped my shoes, shook the snow off my poles before tossing them back in the car. Sweating through my layers, I stripped down to my long-sleeved shirt and jeans before climbing into the driver’s seat. I turned the key, cranked up the radio, checked my phone.
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Three text messages.
Nothing from Ada.
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The first message was from Chief Joe.
What the hell, Jeff. You trying to start something?
The second was from Norman Townsend, the town council president.
Call me.
The third was from Sami.
I think I’m going to see this Dog’s Purpose movie. It looks like dogs are going to be the theme around here for a while. Not real excited about a movie that doesn’t just sucker me into watching a dog die, but watching the same dog die over and over. I’ll have the review for you by Wednesday.
I sat there nonplussed. I wanted to take credit for whatever shit I’d stirred up, but it would have helped if I’d known what it was. I guessed it had something to do with a story on dogs getting their throats slit, but all I’d done was report the few facts I’d had by press time. Most of which I’d assumed the majority of the town already knew. Weekly papers aren’t exactly notorious for breaking stories.
Nothing for it, I figured, but to head back to town and find out what all the commotion was about. I checked my mirrors―pure habit, since even the two cars that had been there when I arrived were gone now―and backed out.
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The drive home was shorter than I’d hoped, but then, that’s the way it always was. I dropped my keys onto the hook by the door and headed straight to the refrigerator. Standing there for a moment, I considered the contents as if there were some doubt about what I would choose. I pulled out a Guinness and tossed a frozen pizza in the oven, then grabbed the ranch dressing and set it on the kitchen bar. No point pretending I was going to eat healthy. Besides, I had just snowshoed for four hours. I had earned a little satisfaction.
Ada had been the one to introduce me to the delights of pizza and ranch dressing.
While the pizza warmed up, I sat down at the bar, taking a long pull of the Guinness before opening my text messages back up. I decided to go from easy to hard.
I texted Sami first.
Sounds good. And it can’t be any worse than Old Yeller.
I was curious if Sami had ever read Old Yeller or seen the movie. Or heard of it. Probably not.
I wondered in what immeasurable ways the American psyche would be changed when no one remembered Old Yeller.
Chief Joe was next.
Sorry, Chief, I’m not sure what’s going on. Problem with the paper? I did double check all the facts with you before we went to press.
Now I needed to call Townsend. I took another swig and grimaced at my phone.
He picked up on the first ring. Naturally.
“Jeff,” he said heavily. “’Bout time.”
“I’ve been out of town all day. What’s up?”
Townsend was not my favorite person. Self-important and obnoxious, he was nonetheless an endless source of entertaining quotes. Normally I took a malicious pleasure on printing word-for-word some of his most ridiculous comments, but today I wasn’t in the mood to be amused by ignorance.
“As if you didn’t know. People like you are why Americans are sick of a free press.”
In spite of myself, I reached across the counter and pulled my ever-present notebook and pen nearer to me. The man was absolute gold, and he didn’t even know it.
“Is this conversation on the record, Norm?”
“Hell, yes, it is.”
It never failed. I started scribbling.
“Still don’t know what’s going on.”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t do it on purpose. That front page of yours was the equivalent of bear-baiting.” Ooh. Equivalent. That was a big word for Norm. “Poor old Whithers was chased down the street by a bunch of middle-school boys throwing rocks and glass bottles.”
I set down my pen. “Whithers? Why?”
Whithers had been a fixture in the town for over a decade. He just turned up one day, from God knows where. He
hadn’t been all that old then, I guess, although alcohol had already taken its toll on his appearance. A dozen rumors had pretended at his story, but no one knew the truth. Some folks claimed his wife and teenage daughter had been killed by a drunk driver. Other people said he was a washed-up peace activist who’d lost track of the wars. My favorite―if least likely―explanation was that he was former KGB on the run from the US and Russia both.
Bottom line, he was harmless. He picked up occasional odd jobs, pulling weeds from the town median and washing windows for the shops downtown. Probably almost everyone in town had bought him a meal or a coffee at one time or another. He didn’t talk much, but he caused no problems, so he had quickly become simply another resident of Brisby. I knew for a fact that when the winter nights grew too bitter cold even for him, the minister at the First Baptist Church smuggled him into the church basement, and Whithers had never stolen so much as a communion wafer.
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“You made it pretty clear that you thought there was a connection between the homeless and those poor dogs that were killed the other night. What did you think was going to happen? Whithers is the only homeless guy around here.”
I guessed Brett didn’t count. Brett had been a blip. Blippy Brett. I grinned foolishly and looked at the bottle in my hand. Only 5% alcohol, right?
“Whoa there, Norm. Those were two separate stories. They were both on the front page, sure, but they had separate headlines and were written entirely independently of each other. Not to mention that the homeless story to which you refer was specifically focused on the increase in the transient population in Colorado since marijuana was legalized. Homeless and transient are not the same thing.”
“Well, I guess the middle school students missed that fine point. Whithers was lucky that church was letting out when they chased him down the street, or things might have been a lot worse.”
I sighed. “All right, Norm. But you can’t hold me responsible for the crazy connections people make between totally unrelated events. All I do is report the news.
* * *
Crazy connections. I was back in the dark, listening to Ada’s voice sink into my chest like molten lead. Unregarded loneliness. “I’m afraid if I don’t leave now, I never will. I’ll be drowned, swallowed up, buried in this place with nothing but regret for air.”
* * *
Anger surged. Norm was still talking.
“Don’t give me that bullshit. Even a six year old knows that there is the news, and then there is the way the news is reported. This is on your hands, Jeff.”
“Then you’ll have to forgive me if I go wash them now.”
I ended the phone call, knowing that I would pay for my abruptness later. I was surprised to see that my hands were shaking.
Well, I guess I knew what Chief Joe wanted now. No doubt more of the same. I shook my head, drained the last of the beer, and opened the oven door to check on the pizza. It was too bad about poor old Whithers, but I didn’t see how I could have anticipated the level of stupid that led to the attack on him. I seriously doubted that twelve-year-old boys would have put those two stories together. Doubted even more that they had actually read the paper. They had to have acted on the overheard assumptions and suspicions of their parents. I wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.
The pizza wasn’t done, of course. The cheese was barely melting. I should have snapped the thing in half and stuck it in the microwave. I was starving.
Reluctantly I checked my phone. Norm had called right back, but I wasn’t about to prolong that misery. Chief Joe had texted again.
People seem to think you know something about a connection between the homeless and dog attacks. Give me a call or drop by the station. Don’t know if you have heard yet, but some kids went after Whithers in the street.
I shook my head. There was nothing for it but to head to the station. Not before my pizza, though. And at least one more Guinness. On the bright side, Chief Joe was ten times the man that Norm Townsend was, so this conversation should be a little less painful.
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Four Guinnesses made any confrontation more bearable, I decided, as I strolled into the police station. Bonnie Mac’s chair was empty. She drew the line at working on Sundays. Said the devil might not take a day off, but she was no devil and she would.
“Is that you, Jeff?”
Chief Joe stuck his head out of his office.
“The one and only.”
He raised his eyebrows but only said, “Come on in.”
Sitting down in front of his battered wooden desk, I leaned forward on my knees and looked him in the eyes. People loved that.
“So what’s the deal, Chief? You know I couldn’t have foreseen what those idiots would do.”
Chief Joe scrubbed at his grizzled face with a knob-knuckled hand. “I didn’t make the leap myself, but I can’t pretend I’m surprised other folks did. What I really want to know is if you have any reason to believe that this transient kid you mentioned in your story had anything to do with those dog-killings.”
“No.” I shook my head in disgust. “Hell, no. He was a pathetic kid looking for a ride out of town. That I assume he found, because I haven’t seen him since. The whole point of that story was following up on the latest HIDTA report about how legalization has impacted crime rates and the transient population. Nothing to do with the dog story. If the guy who did that was on drugs, I seriously doubt it was marijuana. More like meth. Or bath salts.”
Chief Joe nodded. “That’s true enough.”
“Should I assume that you’re asking these questions because you don’t have any more leads?”
“This conversation is off the record, Jeff.” He leveled a stern glance at me. I was buzzed enough to have to fight a grin at his seriousness.
“Sure. Of course. I’m only here to help.”
“Brisby isn’t exactly on the way to anywhere. We don’t get a lot of strangers. It’s concerning to think that we have someone here unhinged enough to do something like this. And people are feeling anxious, not just for their pets. Somebody with a knife was lurking in their backyards in the middle of the night. That’s a recipe for hysteria right there. I need you to be careful how you tell your stories, Jeff.”
Some people don’t respond well to authority, even well-meaning, perfectly reasonable authority. I’m one of those people.
Add to that my general contempt for the work I do, and it’s a recipe for rebellion.
I was enjoying the cooking theme in our conversation, even if it was mostly in my head. I’ve never read the Anarchist’s Cookbook, but I hear it’s popular.
Aloud, I said, “I understand, Chief,” and stood and extended my hand. Chief Joe stood, too, tilting his head back to look up at me. I didn’t know what tribe had given him his burnished skin and broad cheekbones, but it wasn’t one of the tall ones.
“Thanks for coming by, Jeff. I’ll let you know when we catch this guy.”
“I appreciate that. Always happy to work with the police.”
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I whistled to myself as I hit the sidewalk. “I think,” I murmured to myself, “that I need to pursue this story a little further.”
The First Baptist Church, then.
Dammit.
Nonplussed, I came to a halt in front of the wide white double doors of the church. I could hear a discordant jumble of voices and piano keys that must pass for singing coming from inside. I forgot that Baptists like to meet on Sunday nights, too. Church hadn’t been a part of my schedule for a long time now.
Oh, well. At least I was sure to find the pastor inside. I could en
dure a few minutes of holiness to speak to him.
Right? Right.
I slipped in the door right as the song ended. The congregation was a small one, with maybe thirty people scattered among the pews that must once have boasted more of the devout. I took a seat in the back.
“Pray with me, brothers and sisters!”
A frail-looking old man raised his hands from the pulpit and addressed God. I tucked my head but kept my eyes open. A toddler three rows up stared accusingly at me over his mother’s shoulder. Even he knew I didn’t belong here.
At least the singing was over. I recognized the pastor when he stood up to deliver the sermon. Willis Randolph had an old man’s name but a young man’s sensibilities. Less fire and brimstone and more feed the poor and love thine enemy, he might be the most liberal man in town. I listened with half an ear, more interested in gauging the reactions of others than attending to the voice of God.
Just when I thought it was finally over, a middle-aged woman with badly bleached hair made her way to the front. I couldn’t see her face from where I was sitting, but I had the sinking feeling that she was probably crying. Randolph sat beside her and put his arms around her shoulders, his head against hers as they spoke quietly for a moment.
I wished that I had brought the last two bottles of beer with me. This was turning into a circus. All I wanted was a few minutes alone with Randolph.
Ah. The ringleader was back on his feet.
“Family, our dear sister Angela needs our prayers. Her husband, Don, has been overtaken by the devil.”
My ears perked up at that. Nothing beats a good demon possession. I thought that was more of a Catholic thing, though.
“He has been drawn away by temptation. Overtaken by his own lusts. Come, let us pray for our sister and our brother.”
Well, that was disappointing. Run-of-the-mill adultery, then, I figured. I was taken aback when the rest of the congregation left their seats and headed to the front to form a rough semi-circle around the bereft Angela. Not willing to be marked as an interloper just yet, I muddled along at the back of the small crowd. Randolph laid his hands on Angela’s bowed head. A sweaty hand grasped mine.
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