Cold Skies

by Thomas King

  And flowers and candy? Roxanne was watching too many soaps. Adults didn’t do that sort of thing anymore, did they?

  He wasn’t even sure that there was a florist in Chinook until he looked in the Yellow Pages and found one at the end of Main Street. The woman was just closing for the day and didn’t have any roses in stock.

  “You have to order those special,” said the woman. “And ahead of time.”

  “What do you have?”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Occasion?”

  “Romance, celebration?” The woman paused and looked him up and down. “Contrition?”

  Thumps settled for a bouquet of yellow flowers that reminded him of daisies, along with a fringe of something called baby’s breath and some green stuff to hold it all together.

  Baby’s breath. Who thought up these names?

  The bill came to over thirty dollars.

  “Were the roses cheaper?”

  The woman was still laughing as she pushed Thumps out the door and locked the shop.

  The chocolate was harder. Thumps would have thought that this would be the easy part, but the first two stores he stopped at only had milk chocolate. A clerk at the Albertsons told him that dark chocolate wasn’t as popular as the milk.

  “If it doesn’t sell,” the man told Thumps, “we don’t carry it.”

  “Any place in town that might carry dark chocolate?”

  “Only place I can think of,” said the clerk, “is Chinook Pharmacy.”

  HE HAD SEEN enough of Chintak Rawat, but when Thumps walked into the pharmacy, there Rawat was, standing behind the counter as though he had been waiting for Thumps to return.

  “Ah, Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Rawat. “You have just missed your good friend Mr. Archie.”

  Thumps could feel sweat forming in his underarms. “Was he looking for me?”

  “Unhappily, no,” said Rawat. “He came to explain to me the obligations and goals of National Dark Skies Week.”

  “The lights in the store?”

  “Yes,” said Rawat. “Sadly, it is an old store and there is only one switch for the lights. If I turn that off, I cannot read the prescriptions nor find the medicines on the shelves.”

  “Archie will understand.”

  “He was not as understanding as one would hope,” said Rawat.

  Thumps should have been sympathetic, but he found himself enjoying the anxiety that Archie had left in his wake. What did that say about him?

  “And you, Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Rawat. “I hope you are feeling better.”

  “I am,” said Thumps, because saying anything else would have plunged him into a medical discussion he would prefer to avoid. “I’m looking for dark chocolate.”

  “That is not a good idea,” said Rawat. “While dark chocolate has less sugar than milk chocolate, it is still a sugar product and should be avoided, especially in the early stages of establishing a healthy diet.”

  “It’s not for me.”

  “Denial,” cautioned Rawat, “is not an effective strategy. There are a great many studies which confirm this.”

  “No,” said Thumps, “the chocolate really is for someone else.”

  “Ah,” said Rawat, his eyes brightening. “Romance. May I inquire whether this is a dalliance or something more enthusiastic?”

  Thumps couldn’t see where that would make any difference.

  “Most assuredly it makes a difference,” said Rawat. “One should not rush to the most excellent and expensive chocolate to service a liaison. To do so would limit your ability to provide future tokens of ascending value.”

  “I think I’d like a box of the good stuff.”

  “You are a sly dog, Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Rawat. “And will you be needing flowers?”

  “You sell flowers?”

  “Of course not,” said Rawat. “This is a pharmacy. You would need to go to a florist to find flowers.”

  “I’m okay for flowers,” said Thumps.

  “There are also a great many libations that one might consider,” said Rawat, “though I would be remiss if I did not alert you to the possible perils of such an adventure.”

  Thumps didn’t want to ask.

  “Romantic undertakings that are supplemented with flowers and candy and alcohol have an excellent possibility of culminating in sexual activity.”

  “The chocolates?” said Thumps quickly.

  “And, if one is not alert, sexual activity can lead to procreation.” Rawat reached under the counter and came up with a box of condoms. “Very thin with only the slightest reduction in sensitivity.”

  Thumps looked over his shoulder to see who else might be in the store.

  “And with what we now know about drinking and birth defects,” said Rawat, “we must be quite vigilant to separate fermented spirits from conception and pregnancy at any stage.”

  Thumps held his wrist up and rotated the watch so Rawat could see the time. “I have to get to the airport.”

  “Has anyone discussed fetal alcohol spectrum disorder with you?”

  Thumps put the credit card back in his wallet and took out cash. “I really have to run.”

  Rawat smiled and folded the top of the bag in a neat crease. “Then,” he said, “I shall say no more about it.”

  BY THE TIME he pulled into the airport parking lot, there were already a number of cars resting in the spaces closest to the terminal. Several Jeeps were huddled in a bunch under one of the security lamps. They were probably part of Chivington’s rental fleet, and for just an instant, Thumps considered checking them for additional dead bodies.

  And then the instant passed.

  Outside, the sky was beginning to darken, and he paused for a moment to enjoy the heavens as they turned soft and velvet. Inside, the terminal was bright and ghastly, the light hard and cold, as though some genius had decided to capture the ambience of a meat locker.

  Orem was standing at the rental desk, looking spiffy in his red blazer with the gold name tag. And bored. Thumps wasn’t sure Orem would recognize him, but the young man spotted him immediately.

  “Mr. DreadfulWater.”

  Thumps smiled and wandered over, the flowers in one hand, the box of chocolate in the other.

  “I’m guessing you’re not here to rent a car.”

  “Meeting a friend.”

  “My girlfriend likes me to bring flowers,” said Orem. “She’s not so keen on chocolate. She likes ice cream better.”

  “Plane from Great Falls on time?”

  “It is,” said Orem. “I’ve got three rentals coming in on that flight. And then I’m done.”

  “No more flights tonight?”

  “There’s one from Fargo at ten with two rentals,” said Orem. “But Sandy is going to handle that.”

  “Andy?”

  “Right, Andy,” said Orem, his voice flattening a bit. “It’s a little embarrassing.”

  “Embarrassing?”

  “I’ve been fired,” said Orem. “Mr. Chivington said I shouldn’t have talked to the sheriff. Says I got him into trouble.”

  Thumps shook his head. “You didn’t get Norm into trouble. He did that himself.”

  “That’s what Deanna said.”

  It took Thumps a few seconds to make the connection. “Deanna? Deanna Heavy Runner?”

  “My girlfriend. She works up at Shadow Ranch.” Orem was suddenly beaming, beaming the way only people in love can beam. “We’re thinking about getting married after we graduate from college.”

  Thumps tried to remember if he had ever been that happy. Maybe once upon a time. Not now. But maybe once.

  Orem continued to beam. “Anyway, it’s for the best.”

  “Marriage?”

  “No,” said Orem, “losing my job. Deanna says there’s going to be an opening in the pro shop at Shadow Ranch. I carry a two handicap, and this job has given me some experience in sales and service, so I’ve got a shot at it.”

  “That sounds great.�
�

  “Pays a lot better, too,” said Orem. “Course I don’t know if Mr. Chivington is going to give me a recommendation.”

  Thumps had played a couple of rounds at Shadow Ranch’s South Forty. It was a good course. He didn’t know what his handicap was, but it wasn’t a two.

  “Maybe I can talk to Norm.”

  “Wow,” said Orem. “That would be great.”

  Thumps checked his watch. He could see the runway through the windows at the far end of the terminal. No plane.

  “They always list it as on time,” said Orem, reading Thumps’s mind. “Even when it’s late. Mr. Chivington always likes it when the planes are late.”

  Thumps couldn’t see where Chivington would care one way or the other.

  “He makes more money off the parking lot when people have to park and then wait for the plane to arrive.”

  Thumps put the flowers and the chocolate on the rental counter. “The night that Lester died, the plane was late, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” said Orem. “It was.”

  “Andy Hooper came by to check the cars in the lot that night. You remember what time that was?”

  Orem wasn’t beaming anymore. His face was somewhere between guilty and embarrassed.

  “Am I in trouble?”

  Thumps frowned. “Why would you be in trouble?”

  Orem looked around the terminal and lowered his voice. “I think I might have misled you and the sheriff. Andy normally checks the cars in the lot, but sometimes he calls in and asks me to do it.”

  “He called in that night.”

  “He did,” said Orem. “Said he wasn’t feeling well and asked me to check on the cars. I’m not supposed to leave the desk, but there’s time between the flights. It’s really not a problem.”

  “So Andy didn’t check the cars the evening that Lester was found dead.”

  “No,” said Orem, “I did the count that night.”

  Thumps was working on the next question when the runway lights came on.

  “There she is.”

  The terminal came to life. The PA system crackled, and a young woman’s voice announced the arrival of Flight 20 from Great Falls. Orem stepped to the computer and began punching in numbers.

  “Have to get the rental forms ready,” he said. “If you can talk to Mr. Chivington, I’d really appreciate it.”

  Thumps felt somewhat foolish standing in the arrivals lounge with flowers and candy. Who did that anymore? He didn’t even know if Claire liked flowers. He had never bought her any. Nor candy for that matter.

  And he hadn’t considered who else might be getting off the plane, or that he would have to stand there on public display as the passengers filed by him.

  Raymond Tullie, the high school football coach. “Someone getting lucky?”

  Ginger Williams, the loan officer at Cattleman’s Bank and Trust. “Nice flowers.”

  Sarah Brandt, who ran the feed store north of town. Just a quick smile.

  Rebecca Turner, accountant at Chinook Tax Services. “Maybe you could give my husband lessons.”

  Thumps smiled and nodded as everyone had a quick shot at him. He imagined that this was the contemporary version of the medieval practice of dragging a person out to the village square and putting them in stocks, and he was beginning to wonder if Claire had made the plane at all or if this public dismembering was for naught.

  Claire was not among the first fifteen passengers. And she wasn’t in the next ten.

  And then there she was. Looking tired. As though she had travelled a very long way and still had a distance to go.

  Thumps didn’t know whether to wave or call out or just stand there until she found him. In his immediate fantasy, Claire would see him with the flowers and chocolate, drop her bags, and rush into his arms. She might be smiling. She might be crying. Either way, she was happy, telling him he shouldn’t have, or that she missed him, or that being with him made her feel complete.

  Instead, Claire stopped and let her shoulders slump, as though she had just been told that she had to get back on the plane and return to Great Falls. Then she marched over to where he was standing.

  “This is Roxanne’s idea,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

  It wasn’t so much a question as it was an accusation.

  “Thought you might like flowers.”

  “And I suppose there’s dark chocolate in the bag.”

  “There is.”

  “And you’re here to take me home?”

  Thumps wasn’t sure that getting the right answer to the questions was doing him any good.

  “Okay,” said Claire with another heavy sigh. And she headed for the doors of the terminal, leaving Thumps in her wake. “Let’s get on with it.”

  Thirty

  For the first part of the drive, Claire slumped against the passenger door with her eyes closed. Thumps knew he wasn’t to say anything, and he took the interlude to go back over what he might have done wrong.

  Flowers. Chocolate. He had showered and shaved, even put on some cologne that he had found on a shelf in the bathroom. He had answered all her questions truthfully and hadn’t made any obvious mistakes. He wanted to break the silence and open up the conversation in the hopes that something such as warmth or affection might fall out. But he didn’t know where to begin.

  Women had a way of walling themselves off from the world, and Claire was particularly good at it. As he drove through the night, Thumps felt as though he was transporting a marble statue that might at any moment roll over and crush him.

  Maybe he’d start with something simple and innocuous.

  “So, how was Great Falls?”

  At which point, the statue rolled over.

  “Damn it.” Claire’s voice was a gunshot in the confines of the Volvo. “I’m going to strangle that woman.”

  Roxanne seemed the obvious answer to the unspoken question.

  “Roxanne told you, didn’t she?”

  Thumps wasn’t sure what it was that Roxanne might have told him, and he wasn’t about to ask.

  “Cooley came by. Asked me if I would pick you up.”

  Thumps could feel the car picking up speed. The speedometer read seventy-six. He eased up on the accelerator and touched the brakes.

  “And the flowers and chocolate?” said Claire. “You came up with all that on your own?”

  NO ONE ON the reservation owned land outright, but different families had occupied particular pieces for so long that no one questioned their right to be there. The high, hard ridge at the foot of the mountains and the circle of bottomland that had been created as the Ironstone looped its way south had always been Merchant land.

  Claire’s house sat on high ground overlooking the river. It was a prefab house, a remnant of one of the many economic ventures that the tribe had been encouraged to try. The majority of these had been the bright ideas of some eager bureaucrats in Washington, ideas that were generally ill-conceived, always underfunded, and never supported any longer than the next election.

  The house was a long rectangle wrapped in sky-blue and white aluminum siding. It was not a pretty house, nothing like the ones featured in the magazines, and Claire’s only attempt at landscaping had been to form a pad in front of the porch out of four large concrete slabs. The rest of the yard was dirt and short grass. Thumps had always thought that houses on the prairies looked tentative, as though they didn’t quite belong, as though they had paused on the land to rest a while before moving on.

  The last time Thumps had been to Claire’s house, there hadn’t been a tree standing right in the middle of the driveway.

  “You planted a tree?”

  It was a spindly thing, ghostly grey, as though it was on the verge of dying and would never recover. In the headlights of the Volvo, the branches glowed with biblical intensity.

  “Russian olive,” said Claire, as though that was an answer. “The house needed some shade.”

  “They’re not exactly a shade tree.” Thu
mps steered around the tree and parked the car at the side of the house. “They’re mostly ornamental.”

  Thumps had seen Claire exhausted and he had seen her sad and disheartened, but the Claire who sat in his car and watched the night sky through the windshield was none of these. This Claire was diminished.

  “What was Roxanne supposed to tell me?”

  “She wasn’t supposed to tell you anything.”

  “Okay,” said Thumps, “what wasn’t she supposed to tell me?”

  Claire sat quietly for a moment, and then she opened the door and stepped out. “Bring the flowers and chocolate,” she said. “I’ll make coffee.”

  No one who knew Claire would accuse her of being a tidy person. All things considered, she was something of a slob. There were dirty dishes floating in the sink. Thumps didn’t want to know how long they had been there. A couple of days? A week? One side of the counter next to the toaster was covered with crumbs, and the stove looked as though spaghetti had been on the menu in the not-so-distant past. The last time he had been here, Thumps had taken the time to clean the place. Organize the boxes in her cupboards. Arrange the dishes and the glasses according to pattern and size. Yet look where he might, there was no sign of his handiwork. It was as though the jungle had returned and swallowed all signs of civilization.

  Thumps held the flowers out. “Vase?”

  Claire shook her head. “Put them in a stew pot.”

  Thumps didn’t want to open the refrigerator, but curiosity got the better of him. It was a mistake.

  “You looking for milk?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think it’s still good.”

  Thumps shook the carton. He could hear the clots rattling against each other. There was no need to open the carton. It could go straight into the toilet.

  “I’ve also got some of that powdered creamer somewhere.”

  The sour milk wasn’t the only thing in the refrigerator that had lived a long and full life. There was a weepy, brown lump that might have been an apple, a plastic sack of green mush that had probably been a cucumber, and a plate with what looked to be a sandwich of some sort that had grown fur.