by Greg Jolley
They both had business in Dent; specifically, at the sheriff’s temporary office. Wiki was scheduled for an interview with Sheriff Deane’s boss, and Jame was supposed to give a status on the cable repairs.
Wiki and Jame headed into town, walking the road minus snowshoes—the snow was little more than shin-deep. There were sweeps of strong sunlight through the trees. Wiki found her sunglasses and put them on. Jame restrained his hand from correcting their crooked fit. She saw what he wanted to do and tapped the shades to one side, to no effect, and shrugged.
She began to talk, describing her childhood and what she called her “teen decade” at the la Diana resort in South America.
“And your twenties?” he asked.
“Well, still in them. You know my aunt, Pauline Place?”
“The Pauline Place? No, well, I’ve seen her in movies.”
“She took me on, hired me two years ago. It’s interesting. I get to travel all over.”
“What do you do?”
“Did do. Past tense. I was her printer.”
“Huh?”
“I did all of her correspondence, email, calls, some scheduling. She doesn’t like computers so I printed and organized everything for her. Script edits and the changes that always came in way late from studios. I printed her handwritten notes, typed up whatever comments she wanted emailed, and placed some of her business and scheduling calls. I also keep track of Uncle Pierce, who was always wandering about and adventuring.”
“Did you get to see her act?”
“Yes. Sometimes I was on set. Way in the back of the set. Truth is, filming is very slow, very time consuming, and I had my own work to do. On the set, there’s a lot of waiting around while everyone argues and writes and draws. And, a lot of the scenes are tediously repeated. My aunt is good with that, but the novelty wore thin with me.”
They rounded a curve on the narrow road, and before them, the snow was a brilliant, glaring white.
“Mmm,” Wiki said to the light. “Sun,” she added.
Jame was in awe with the news that Wiki knew and worked with famous people. It was intimidating for a small-town guy who worked for the phone company. Wiki winged her arms out to her sides and tilted her head back as sunlight bathed them. She smiled into the warmth.
“Your girlfriend?” he braved.
Wiki continued with her arms out and her head back.
“Past girlfriend,” she replied, not turning.
Wind in the treetops shook free a fall of snow dust.
“Where is she?”
“Still in Spain. With Pauline. And the twat that stole her.”
Jame stopped walking. The gutter mouth surprised him. He felt at a loss.
He asked, “What’s her name?”
“The cunt?”
Jame again felt rattled.
“No, your girlfriend.”
“Her name? Hmm. Let’s go with ex.”
The road led them back inside shadows, and Wiki lowered her arms. The two of them walked silently the rest of the way to Dent.
They walked up Main Street, crossing to the makeshift sheriff’s office. A few minutes later, Jame headed off to work at the C.O. They didn’t say a word to one another as they parted.
✳ ✳ ✳
Cable repairs took up most of Jame’s morning. Eric Adam’s shitty music radio played from the deep end of the mainframe. Jame decided he would never be the one to change the channel or turn it off. When he was done with cable 47A, he left the C.O. and crossed Main to give the sheriff the status. The shop was lit and warm and neither the sheriff nor Wiki were there. Jame decided to go to the Quickee and retrieve his truck.
Crossing the Quickee parking lot, he saw Wiki and Deane coming around the big pine at the start of town. They walked slow and looked to be calmly talking. He climbed into his truck, started it, cranked the heater and rolled his window down. Wiki and the sheriff turned into the parking lot. Wiki saw him, smiled, and raised one finger in a just-a-moment gesture. She followed the sheriff inside the store. Jame watched and waited.
Instead of approaching Jame’s window, Wiki rounded the front of the truck and climbed in. “Got a stamp. Can you take me to a mailbox?”
“Sure,” Jame said, seeing the envelope in her hand. As he dropped the clutch, he read the front of the envelope. It was addressed simply to Sara above an odd-looking address and a city he didn’t recognize and Spain before a foreign zip code.
He backed the truck from the yellow tape on sticks that surrounded the spot where Denny Moore had died. They headed slowly up Main Street, where the pavement was visible in spots.
“Want a nudge?” Wiki asked.
Confused and not sure what she meant, he nonetheless replied, “Yes. Sure.”
“Your call on the road conditions, but they look good enough to me. Go visit Abel in the hospital.”
They rode in silence past the shops and cottages with the white lake to their left. Jame parked in front of the town’s only mailbox on the sidewalk. Wiki climbed out with the letter raised in her hand. He watched her slide the envelope inside and stare at the slot. Her expression had darkened, to a scowl of pain. She didn’t return to the truck, but waved him on instead and started back up the street. Jame checked his mirrors and made a U-turn and, as nudged, started the trip to the city.
✳ ✳ ✳
He got as far as the auto wreck at the edge of town. No cops, just two workers from out of town. One of them had retrieved Denny Moore’s tow and plow truck and was pulling Mrs. Sheaan’s smashed silver Pontiac from a snowdrift. What he assumed was Wiki’s crunched rental was yellow taped and up on four jacks. Sheriff Chris Doyle’s patrol truck was also sealed with yellow tape wound around the doors and windows. It had been towed to the shoulder of the road. Jame parked and walked over to the worker kneeling before Wiki’s elevated rental.
A black tarp was spread out underneath the car. Chris Doyle’s body had been removed. The hood was open and yellow taped. Jame assumed the new sheriff’s body had been tangled in the steering arms and all.
“Gonna drop it,” the worker in front of the car called out, with his hand on a jack arm.
“Can I get inside? I just want to grab a few things,” Jame asked him.
“You the owner?” The worker growled, not turning around.
“Nope, but—”
“You notice the yellow cop tape?”
“Yes.”
The worker twisted the jack arm, and the right rear of the car sank to the ground. He circled to the other side and Jame followed. The worker used his boot to clear snow and brown slush from his workspace. He worked the jack and the rear of Wiki’s car came to rest on both rear tires.
“Can I help?” Jame asked the worker who was moving to the front right of the car. The guy ignored him and released the third jack. The car lowered onto three tires, leaving the driver’s side still elevated. Jame followed the worker around to that side.
“Yeah,” the worker finally responded, “You can pull out the tarp after I lower this side. I don’t want touch it. See? It’s fucking nasty.”
Jame knelt at the car’s bumper. The tarp didn’t budge, being frozen to the pavement. He circled the car, peeling the tarp upward at all four corners. The worker watched him, his arms across his chest, frowning. Jame sat under the front bumper with his legs out and his boots dug in for leverage. The tarp slid out from under the car, and Jame scooted backwards to make room.
The center of the tarp was blood smeared. Snow and ice crust formed the shape of the dead sheriff. Jame didn’t fold the tarp as he worked it out, thinking it might be need as evidence. He pulled the tarp all the way out, having to let it climb up across his own body.
“That is seriously fucked up,” the worker observed.
Jame stood and looked. And agreed.
“Appreciate it,” the worker spoke to the awful tarp. “Don’t look under the hood. It’s even worse.”
Jame stepped around the tarp to front of the car, and the worker
lifted the pole holding the hood up. Before it dropped, Jame looked in, and it was even worse—gore and parts of Chris Doyle were tangled in the suspension. The closing smack of the hood helped.
“What do you want from the car?” the worker asked.
“I know the owner. I just want to grab her clothes and stuff.”
“Okay. I’m gonna go and be busy by the sheriff’s truck. Won’t know what the hell you’re up to.”
Jame used his Swiss Army knife to slice the yellow tape and opened the car. He leaned in, looked over the front seat, and grabbed the leather bag from the passenger floorboard. It was filled with Wiki’s clothing. Before he set it on the road, he raised the bag to his face and breathed in. Cinnamon.
On the passenger seat there was an iPad, a Post-it pad, and some little pencils, like the kind you got at miniature golf. The pencils and the Post-it pad went into his sweatshirt pouch and he carried the iPad and the leather bag to his truck. He passed the worker climbing into Denny’s plow and tow truck. The worker ignored him, and he put Wiki’s belongings on the passenger seat.
He had a long slow drive to the city where he was planning to visit Abel, and Viv in the burn ward. He hoped to be back on the road before dark. At that moment, the sky was blue and warm, but he knew from a life in Dent that the weather could quickly turn. He steered carefully through the accident scene and headed south.
Four miles along, the road appeared to narrow as dense, tall white trees closed in from both sides. High drifts ate into the width of the pavement. When the white sky lowered, the sense of being in a tunnel was complete.
Jame tried to relax knowing that tensing up would affect his steering. The road angled downward as he entered a valley. Halfway down the decline, the rear end of the truck became squirrely, even as the four-wheel drive chewed into the soft snow and clawed through the iced drifts. Jame told himself take a deep breath, and he did, but his hands gripped all the tighter.
An ice chunk clouted the right front tire, and the truck began to slide. Anger, a rare emotion for Jame, replaced the initial fear. This hot emotion expanded outward from the situation with the truck, even as he fought the wheel, turning into the skid. All the cruelty and violence in his small town, all the friends and acquaintances killed or injured. Another ice rock bashed the steering, this time on the left, which actually helped Jame correct the slide. The anger found expression in Jame’s right foot and he pressed the accelerator and released his clenched jaw.
A wave of white crushed up over the hood of the truck as he entered the belly of the valley. Jame had the steering pointed true as the anger dissolved into the more familiar emotion of hope. Hope that was wider than his feelings for Wiki. He switched on the wipers as large silent flakes began to land on the windshield. The hope he was experiencing had a new flavor; it was void of people and things. It was, simply, for himself. A mile away, the road rose up the other side of the valley and the immensely tall white trees framed an opening of blue sky and warm light at the end of the tunnel.
Around the lake, sliding glass doors opened and children stepped out, cautious but delighted. Padding out onto the decks and patios, most turned east, raising their faces to the heat of the first warm day in four months. Fat clouds were opening and closing as they scrolled across a rich blue sky.
Here and there, wherever the sun found the snow and frost, lawns were revealing themselves in vibrant tones of green. For the children of Dent, toys were re-discovered. For the adults, forgotten outdoor furniture, barbeques, and yard tools appeared on their driveways, yards, and patios.
On Main Street, the north facing shops and the backsides of cottages steamed and revealed. Town residents were moving out and about; there were many outdoor chores that needed to be done, chores long dormant. Preparations for spring began. When folks met up, most of the talk was about the approaching season. The rest of the conversations, with the kids out of earshot, were about the murders and Wesley Lorenzo and his equally crazy son, Cain. What had been heard and, in some cases seen, was shared along with a good amount of speculation.
Upon request, folks visited the sheriff‘s shop; otherwise, the common meeting ground for the residents of Dent was the Quickee, where Tory initially held center stage. His eagerness and excitement soon wore thin, and the town people took to ignoring him and migrated their gatherings to the benches at the coffee table in the front corner of the store.
Someone did a body count. It seemed that eight people died, but who knew about the occupants of the cottages and lake houses that no one had yet seen. A list was drawn up of the known missing or so far unseen. Mayor Tom Sheaan’s name topped the list.
The lake remained frozen, but eddies of water were appearing along the south and west shorelines. With three days of brilliant light and warm blue skies, the town of Dent turned green as blades of grass, leaves, and bulbs aggressively grew. With the thaw of spring, as snow mounds melted, even more was revealed.
✳ ✳ ✳
Charlie lay on his back with his silver helmet removed and set aside. He was watching the sky. Above, the gray tummy of the clouds was pressed flat as if on an invisible high pane of glass. High over this window white figurines moved past. There was a running dog, a screaming woman, a fish, and a monster with an oversized mouth and twisted face. These four were sliding from left to right. The monster with a very big mouth was moving closer. Charlie rolled over and considered putting his helmet on, but he didn’t. The change in view helped.
There was still snow in shady areas along the west side of the house where he lay and in a low drift alongside the mayor’s car. His gaze rode along the ridges and valleys until interrupted. Just beyond the car, Charlie saw part of the mayor; a hand and his face, sort of, both discolored, blue, and bloated.
Charlie didn’t scream. He wanted to. He scooted backward on the lawn and his elbow clouted his helmet. He pulled it on, stood and started to run, determined to find safety in his pack: the teens.
✳ ✳ ✳
The discovery of Mayor Tom Sheaan’s body cost Sheriff Deane her assignment to the town. It was actually the non-discovery, coupled with a child having found the corpse. A brief meeting was held in the sheriff’s office, followed by her packing up. Her supervisor said he would take the helm for the remaining investigation of, “These buck weed throwbacks with guns and wee brains.”
The reporters didn’t lose enthusiasm for the Dent story, but their bosses did. There were big and splashy things happening in Detroit; it seemed General Motors went cheap on an ignition part for oh, about a few million cars, and people were dying.
✳ ✳ ✳
“Can I borrow your truck again?” Wiki asked Jame.
“Sure. Ann Arbor again? More shopping?”
“Right, that’s it, exactly. Cough.”
Jame smiled and Wiki let out a bubble of laughter.
When she had returned from the last two trips, she had brought back many store bags. Mostly dresses purchased at Macy’s and the Salvation Army. She had also returned from those two trips with a changed demeanor, a heaviness of movement and touch, and a pondering soft voice and loss of focus. Jame wisely gave her a wide berth in the cottage the next day and night and day. As her sharp and funny mouth returned, and he watched her take a renewed interest in her surroundings, including people.
✳ ✳ ✳
Jame and Wiki headed into town together, Wiki driving and Jame enjoying the spring-like view along twisting Three Quarter Road. The lake was still frozen, but most of the fishing huts had been towed to shore. Along the shore, there was clear, cold water. She let him out at the C.O. and headed for the city.
When Jame opened the heavy metal front door, he was greeted by Eric Adam’s awful music playing from deep inside. After he finished the day’s one hour’s worth of service orders, he made three calls to Tech Support before spending time rewiring his own cottage’s circuit, adding ADSL. When he left for the day, he walked along Three Quarter Road with a DSL and Wi-Fi router for Wiki.
&nbs
p; The funeral service for Mayor Tom was scheduled for that evening; the last funeral, everyone hoped. Jame decided to go. Maybe get a ride with Wiki if she was back in time or leave earlier and walk.
He was home from the service and changed back into day-to-day clothes when Wiki returned. Standing in front of the refrigerator deciding on dinner, he listened to the porch and inner doors open. He expected another evening of distance from her as had happened after her last two trips.
Wiki came in carrying shopping bags, and Jame was again suspicious of the many long hours it had taken her to fill them.
She was not only chatty, but also grinning. This was a surprise. True, she was watching the view instead of him, her gaze soft and unblinking. He decided to intrude.
“Hi you, you’re back later than before.”
Wiki went to the back of the couch in her dress and boots. She was wearing a new hat, a black fedora that would look pretentious on some, like him, but worked well on her.
“How was the service?” she asked while taking in the view of the lake.
“Like the others.”
“I wish I could have made it. I like funerals. They’re a good chance to revisit our life with whoever. Course, I didn’t have a life with him or with the others. Still, I would have liked to be there, out of respect, and, as always, to listen to others describe parts of his story.”
Jame closed the refrigerator door. Her verbosity and interest in the folks in Dent was quite a change.
“Yes,” was all he could manage.
He watched her set the shopping bags on the foot of his bed as she crossed to the windows.
“There’s more water showing on the lake tonight,” she said.
“Yes…” he offered.
“I’d like to be some kind of scientist using a microscope or whatever. Zoom in like a camera on the exact spot where the water from the ice blends with that of the lake.”
“Yes…”
Jame had grown familiar with Wiki’s often random talk, but not after a city visit.
“What else did you do in the city?” he asked.
