“Do I really have to stay here?” he said.
She frowned as if she didn’t understand the question.
“How about if I run over to Lakeview and visit your grandmother in the meantime?” he went on. “Then I’ll pick you up afterward. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a bad idea, since nobody’s supposed to know that you’re here,” Chrissy pointed out.
For a moment Lance had totally forgotten about that. His shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Jeez, what a weirdo you are.” Chrissy shook her head.
Suddenly he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop laughing, so he stood up and gestured toward the men’s room at the other end of the bar.
“Hurry up, then,” said his niece. “They’re going to start soon.”
Having made his way across the room, Lance was relieved to be able to close the door behind him, safely out of view. After spending two months alone in a hotel room, he clearly wasn’t used to being out in public anymore. He sat down on the toilet, propped his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. A thin film of sweat covered his brow. It wasn’t simply because he was out of practice being in a roomful of people. There was everything else as well. For instance, the fact that he was lying to his own niece, whom he’d known all her life, making her think he was working undercover for the police, while in reality he was convinced she was living in the same house as a murderer. He thought about what she’d just told him about partying at the cabin. Her story fit with the discovery of the music magazine Darkside, which he’d found when he broke into their cabin in the summer. So Andy hadn’t been there at all on the night of the murder. What had he been doing the whole time until he picked up Chrissy from her girlfriend’s house in Duluth the next morning? All indications were that at some point, maybe around dawn, he had been standing in the ditch along the road outside Finland, holding a baseball bat and covered in blood. What had that boy said? That it definitely wasn’t an Indian they’d seen standing there? But it wasn’t that simple, because Andy and Lance were descendants of Knut Olson and his Ojibwe wife, Nanette.
He was about to go back into the bar when something caught his eye. Hanging on the door in front of him was a poster announcing the evening’s “poetic master reading,” as it was being called. A simple poster with no pictures, just a brief blurb about each of the three poets. And it was the last of the bios—or rather, the name at the very bottom of the poster—that had caught Lance’s attention. At first he merely skimmed the words, but then he took a step back and read more carefully:
Clayton Miller (45): Professor of English at U of M, Twin Cities, originally from Duluth, has published a series of critically acclaimed poetry collections and has won numerous prizes and grants for his literary work. Latest book: Siamese Wing Strokes (Larsmont Publishing).
On the other side of the door he heard a woman’s voice welcoming the assembled audience to the evening’s master reading. If he didn’t exit the toilet at once, he’d be forced to walk through the bar while one of the poets was in the middle of a reading. The very thought filled him with terror.
He stepped out, keeping his head low as he hurried past the poets and emcee to make his way over to Chrissy.
At that moment the emcee introduced the first of the poets. “A woman who has devoted a large part of her life to studying Lake Superior: Liz Brent!”
The slender, gray-haired woman with the gold-rimmed glasses read a series of poems in which Lance could find only scattered references to the lake, through phrases such as “lava rocks,” “the ancient geometry of arrowheads,” “the city, the iron, the water,” and “the good woman and the bad woman standing on either side of the lake, shouting.”
When she was done, he politely applauded as he tried to guess which of the two men was Clayton Miller. Both were tall, and it was his height that was practically the only thing Lance could remember about Clayton. Even so, he thought it had to be the man who looked like a bank teller, and he turned out to be right. When the emcee introduced “Clayton Miller, native son of Duluth,” the man with the cropped hair got up and took a seat on the bar stool next to the tall table. Calmly and deliberately he adjusted the microphone, as if he were in the privacy of his own home and not in a bar where thirty strangers were watching his every move.
Then Clayton Miller began to read. These poems had nothing to do with the lake, at least as far as Lance could tell, but that was really the only thing he understood. Soon he stopped listening altogether and instead stared at Miller, envious at how good the man looked. From what Lance could recall, Clayton had been one grade behind him in school, which was one grade ahead of Andy, but he could easily be taken for ten years younger than either of them. This was the boy who had been lying on the ground in the schoolyard, actually not very far from this very location. “He tried to kill me,” Clayton Miller had gasped after Andy had run away. That was the only time Lance had spoken to the man who was now sitting on a bar stool, whispering words into the microphone: “a mother-of-pearl heart on the mantelpiece, a knife, a peeled apple.”
After the applause faded and Miller was once again sitting at the bar next to Liz Brent, Lance leaned over to his niece and whispered in her ear: “Do you think it’d be possible to talk to the authors afterward?”
“You want to talk to them?”
“Do you think I could?”
“Sure. They usually sell copies of their books after the reading. So, did you like it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Clayton Miller?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Jesus,” she said.
The last poet was introduced, but the only thing Lance could think about was what he was going to say if he got the chance to talk to Miller. Do you remember that time in high school when you got beat up real bad? Well, that was actually my brother who did that to you. So, how’s it going? No, he couldn’t ask about the one thing he wanted to know. If he was going to try to do that, he’d have to get Miller to meet him somewhere else, in some other setting than this one, maybe go to a pub or something. But why would Professor Miller go to a pub with a guy like Lance Hansen? He wouldn’t. But maybe with a girl like Chrissy? But wasn’t Miller gay? At least that was what everyone had said about him in school. And besides, Chrissy was practically a child.
WHEN THE POETRY READING WAS OVER, the emcee announced that books would be for sale, and the authors would be happy to sign copies. The poets took seats behind a table with stacks of books. The audience members started getting up from their chairs. A few headed for the door, but most looked as if they planned to stay awhile longer.
“Are you going to buy a book?” asked Chrissy, looking at Lance.
There was something strange about the look in her eyes.
“Er, I don’t know,” he replied.
“But I thought you said you liked Clayton Miller.”
“Sure, but what should I say?”
“If you give me the money for a book, I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Lance hesitated but then shrugged and took out his wallet.
“How much do you think it costs?”
“Come on. We’ll find out.” She took his wallet from his hand.
Together they got up, grabbed their coats, and went over to the table where people had formed a haphazard line to purchase books and get them signed.
“It’s not really necessary,” said Lance, wanting to leave.
“But I want to buy a book,” Chrissy insisted.
Lance pictured Andy finding a book by Clayton Miller on their coffee table.
“Okay,” he said.
When it was finally her turn, Chrissy leaned forward as she held her long black hair back from her face. Miller looked up at her and smiled.
“Hi,” she said shyly. “I’d like to buy a book.”
“Which one?”
She pointed at one of them.
&nbs
p; “That one,” she said.
Miller picked up the slim volume.
“Siamese Wing Strokes?” he said.
She nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Chrissy.”
He quickly wrote a greeting on the first blank page.
“That’s twenty dollars.”
Chrissy opened her uncle’s wallet and handed a bill to Miller.
“Thanks for the poems. They’re great.”
The professor gave her a brief smile and then turned to look for the next customer as Chrissy slipped behind Lance. Suddenly he felt her hand pressing against his back. She pushed him forward to the table until he was standing in front of Clayton Miller, who looked up at him with an expectant smile.
“Hello,” he said.
“I bring you greetings from an old acquaintance,” Lance managed to say, feeling beads of sweat appear on his forehead.
“Oh, really? Who could that be?”
“It’s a personal matter,” said Lance in a low voice. “Do you think it’d be possible to have a few words with you in private afterward?”
Clayton Miller cast a quick glance at his watch.
“This is probably going to go on for a bit, and I also need to talk to the organizers before I can leave . . .”
“I’ll wait,” said Lance.
“Sure. Okay. If you like. But didn’t you want to buy a book?”
“No, thanks.”
Lance turned on his heel and saw Chrissy watching him from a short distance away, a tentative smile on her face. He hoped she hadn’t heard what he’d said to Miller.
“You didn’t buy a book?’ she asked in surprise when he went over to join her.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Lance merely grunted in reply.
“What?” said Chrissy.
“Listen . . . I arranged to have a little talk with him when he’s done here. Could you go somewhere else, and then I’ll pick you up later?”
“A talk with who?”
“With Miller.”
“What?”
Lance nodded, trying to act nonchalant, as if it were perfectly normal for him to be having talks with professors and poets.
“But what do you want to talk to him about?”
“Poetry,” said Lance after a slight pause.
His niece gave him an incredulous look.
“But why can’t I stay?’ she asked.
“Because it’s . . . guy talk.”
“About poetry?”
“Oh, can’t you just . . . ,” snapped Lance, annoyed.
“So why do you want me to get lost?” she shouted, starting to cry.
“Chrissy. Honey.” Astonished, Lance reached out to put his hand on her shoulder.
“Leave me alone!”
Lance noticed that people were staring at them. Clayton Miller was too. Not to mention the gray-haired Liz Brent, who looked as if she were about to get up and come over to them.
“This is important to me,” Lance whispered, urgently.
Chrissy looked at him with big, tearful eyes, her lip quivering.
“Let’s go outside for a moment and I’ll explain.”
“Okay,” she sniffled.
Shamefaced, he headed across the room with his niece in tow. People moved out of their way as if they were lepers. Outside on the sidewalk he put his hand on Chrissy’s shoulder, giving it a cautious squeeze. Just once.
“I’m an idiot for talking to you like that,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Chrissy smiled uncertainly.
“We were both acting like idiots.”
“Yeah. Maybe so.”
They laughed.
“So what is it you want to talk to him about?”
“Just some old stuff. You know that Miller is originally from Duluth, right? Well, we went to Central High together.”
“You’re joking,” exclaimed Chrissy.
“No, I’m not. He was in the class behind me. We didn’t actually know each other, but . . .”
“So that means he was a grade ahead of Dad?” she said.
“Right.”
“Jesus! Do you think Dad knew him?”
“No, he didn’t. Neither of us knew him. But there was something that happened between Miller and one of my friends . . . something stupid, something about a girl.”
Chrissy’s face lit up with curiosity.
“Tell me.”
“I met a guy awhile ago, I hadn’t talked to him in a long time, and we started reminiscing about the old days, high school and stuff like that. This is a private matter, you see, that’s why I don’t think I can tell you about it, but there was something this guy really regretted, something he’d done to Clayton Miller. So I thought that since I happened to run into Miller now after all these years, I could . . . convey my friend’s regrets.”
“But don’t you realize that I’d like to talk to Miller too?” said Chrissy.
“Sure, but what I want to tell him is something really private, also for Miller. I thought maybe you could wait for me someplace, maybe over at Uncle Louis’s Cafe.”
Chrissy gave him a resigned look.
“I’ll sit far away from the two of you and close my ears,” she said. “But I’m not going anywhere in this cold.”
When they went back inside, the book signing seemed to be over. The three poets were talking to each other as they sat at the table with the stacks of books. Miller stood up and came over to Lance and Chrissy.
“So, there was something you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Lance.
“Something about an old friend?”
“I’ll wait for you over there,” whispered Chrissy and went over to the bar. She sat down and began paging through Siamese Wing Strokes.
“Could we step outside?” said Lance.
“Sure.”
As they headed for the door, he thought that this was probably the only chance he’d ever get to hear Clayton’s version of what happened so long ago. It was important that he said the right thing and didn’t make a mess of it.
“So?” said Miller impatiently as the door closed behind them and they stood outside in the ice-cold January night.
“Do you remember my brother, Andy Hansen? He was in the class below you in high school.”
“Yeah?” said Miller, curtly.
“He was the one who beat you up that time.”
“Yeah, I know. What’s your point?”
By now Lance had figured out what he wanted to say.
“It has to do with my cowardice as a brother,” he said. “As his big brother. I never talked to Andy about what happened. Of course I should have tried to help him, because there had to be something really wrong for him to beat you up like that. It’s been bothering me more and more as time has passed, but after all these years, I feel like it’s too late to ask him. He would never tell me anything now. When I realized that you were one of the authors . . .”
“So this is how you avoid the unpleasant task of talking to your own brother, is that it?” said Miller. “And by the way, weren’t you the one who stopped him?”
Lance nodded.
“Do you realize that he wanted to kill me?”
“Do you really think so?”
“What do you think he would have done with that baseball bat you took away from him?” Clayton Miller shuddered.
“Well, um . . . ,” said Lance.
“Actually,” said Miller, looking as if he were searching for the right words. “Actually, it doesn’t surprise me to hear that the two of you never talked about what happened.”
“No?”
“But if this is about your ‘cowardice as a brother,’ as you said, then I don’t see what good it will do to talk to me. Shouldn’t you be talking to Andy?”
“You’re right. But tell me this, did the two of you know each other?”
There was something about the way Miller had said his brot
her’s name that made Lance react.
“Depends what you mean by ‘know each other.’ We hung out with the same bunch of kids for a while. But only during that one summer, I think.”
“What bunch of kids?”
Miller smiled.
“Not your bunch of friends, at any rate,” he said.
“No. I guess not.”
“Andy was . . . I don’t know. He just showed up and started hanging out with us. You know how kids are at that age, testing boundaries, trying to find out where they belong. Right? We used to sit around in Lester Park in the evening, listening to music, smoking pot . . . things like that.”
“Andy smoked pot?”
Lance looked over his shoulder to see if anyone could hear them.
“We all did,” replied Miller. “We were . . . what should I say? We were Duluth’s belated beatniks.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it.” Clayton Miller laughed to himself. “By the way, it’s getting really cold out here.” He clapped his glove-clad hands and did a few clumsy hops, as if to underscore his point.
“I know,” said Lance. “But could you just tell me what happened? It’s important. I’d like to know.”
Miller looked as if he was starting to tire of the whole story.
“He showed me something that he’d written.”
Lance shook his head in disbelief. “Something he’d written?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. And?”
“And I laughed at it.”
“Was that all?”
“That was enough,” said Miller.
“But Andy would never have tried to kill somebody because they laughed at something he’d written.”
“Depends on what it was, don’t you think?” said Miller. “But you’ll have to ask him about that yourself. Right now I don’t have time for this anymore. I’ve got a long drive back to Minneapolis.”
Miller turned on his heel and went inside. Lance followed.
The poet immediately began packing up his books, putting them in a box. Feeling at a loss, Lance stood and watched until Chrissy came over to him.
“Done?” she asked her uncle.
Clayton Miller looked up from his books.
“Your daughter?”
The Ravens (Minnesota Trilogy) Page 6
