Black Otter Bay

by Vincent Wyckoff

  After the incident, Fastwater reported that when he looked into the drifter’s eyes, he knew the young man wasn’t going to pull the trigger, even after the robber spun around to direct his aim squarely at the sheriff’s chest. Instead of pulling his own weapon, however, Fastwater riveted his piercing black eyes on the would-be assailant. After closing the gap between them with a couple of surprisingly quick and quiet strides, he simply reached out and snatched the gun from the young man’s hand.

  The story made all the regional news media outlets, and Fastwater’s picture even appeared on the front page of the Duluth newspaper. All the fuss seemed overblown to him. He’d been quoted as saying, “If a man pulls a gun and doesn’t shoot you outright, well, you know he just doesn’t have the heart for it.” Shortly thereafter, he ran for county sheriff, winning by a wide margin, and he’d held the position ever since.

  Fastwater’s ancestors had lived on the shores of Lake Superior since long before the first white settlers arrived. When the Norwegian commercial fishermen, and later the farmers, loggers, and finally the miners came ashore, his family had been here to help them establish a community. In the early days, the fact that his people were Native Americans had never been an issue. Everybody was poor, and everyone worked together to survive in this beautiful, unforgiving country. It wasn’t until the mining industry came in that life became a little easier. By that time, some of the native peoples had succumbed to the new white man’s diseases, while others had moved to reservations, but as the sheriff would tell you, many of the settlers had died, too, or given up the struggle and returned to more civilized, populated urban areas.

  Throughout it all, though, his family had stayed on. They were buried side by side with the white folks in the local cemetery up on the ridge. That’s why Fastwater never saw any irony in the fact that he held the highest office in town while being the only non-white resident. He belonged here, and these were his people, no matter their color or nationality.

  His older sister Arlene, a tireless, liberal, cause-oriented district attorney, lived in Duluth. Arlene was everything flamboyant and overstated that her brother was not. While Marlon earned respect with his commanding size and quiet self-assurance, Arlene was simply loud and large. She wore flowing, floral-printed caftan-style dresses, accented with bright, gaudy jewelry, and when she swept into a courtroom everyone sat up, compelled to take notice.

  The men in the café turned to look at the door as the sheriff’s nephew, Leonard, came in. Arlene’s son worked part-time as a police officer in Black Otter Bay under Marlon’s tutelage. Matthew Simon, just off his day shift at the taconite plant, accompanied him.

  “Hiya Leonard, Matt,” Owen said. All three had been classmates in high school with Marcy more than fifteen years ago. Even though Leonard lived in Duluth now, they remained close friends.

  “Hey, it’s Marlon Junior,” Red called out. Leonard’s father had run off soon after his birth, and folks often joked about how Leonard seemed to have inherited his character traits from his uncle rather than his own mother or father. Soft-spoken, tall, slender, and handsome, Leonard braided his thick black hair in a single long plait. Agile and strong, with big hands like his uncle, he devoted much of his free time to the study of spiritual and personal growth and harmony. He’d traveled far and wide, from remote Cree Indian villages in northern Canada to reservation outposts on the Great Plains, in search of spiritual teachers and wisdom.

  One big difference between the two men was that while Marlon carried the heavy .44 Magnum everywhere he went, Leonard didn’t even own a gun. He knew how to use one—he’d grown up hunting and trapping with his uncle—but as he’d matured into adulthood, he’d gradually left the guns behind, much to the chagrin of his uncle and others in law enforcement. Fortunately, in a quiet village the size of Black Otter Bay, with a population under five hundred, there wasn’t much need for lethal firepower.

  Leonard sauntered across the room, his lanky body fluid and graceful. “Afternoon there, Red, Owen,” he said, nodding at each man in turn. His well-worn western-style boots alit softly on the linoleum floor. With hands in his denim jean pockets, he flashed the briefest wink at Marcy, his request for a cup of coffee. Above the blue jeans he wore an official police officer’s long-sleeved shirt, with a badge pinned over one breast pocket and a photo I.D. tag clipped to the other.

  Marcy set a cup and saucer on the counter, poured the coffee for Leonard, and turned to look at Matthew still standing by the door. He held his cap in his hands, formal-like, and stood just a few steps inside the room. She’d be the first to admit that Leonard could melt a girl’s heart with his dark, virile good looks. Quite honestly, she’d found herself melting there before. But looking at Matthew Simon, she realized he commanded his own style of manly good looks. Standing in the doorway, his dark hair cut a little too long, he surveyed the room with large brown eyes set in a flawless complexion. She found herself smiling at him as he stood self-consciously in his lace-up work boots and faded blue jeans straight from the jobsite.

  “Cup of coffee, Matt?” she called, holding up the pot.

  “Ah, no thanks, Marcy. Just stopped in to say hi.”

  She couldn’t understand how Jackie had walked out on a smile like that. If she had half the good looks Jackie had, she’d . . .

  “I have to get home for the kids,” Matt concluded, before turning for the door.

  “Well, come back sometime when you can’t stay so long,” she called, laughing.

  Sheriff Fastwater watched her, noting the color blushing high on her fair cheeks. He couldn’t help grinning at her obvious infatuation.

  Red called out, “Hey Matt. You and Abby got a plan for fishing yet?”

  Matt stopped at the door and said, “Well, we had a plan, Red. But, hey, this is Minnesota. We got snowed out.”

  Everyone laughed, but Fastwater continued to watch Marcy’s eyes following Matt’s every movement. Finally, she stepped back, leaned against the stainless steel counter, and with effort redirected her gaze at the sheriff.

  She could tell he’d been watching her, so to buy some time to cover her embarrassment, she turned around to place the pot back on the brewer stand. She loved to tease the big lawman, and for his part, he enjoyed his place on the receiving end, so when she turned back to face him again, he anticipated one of her smart-aleck remarks.

  “How’s Mrs. Bean?” she asked. Owen and Red perked up at the question. Mrs. Virginia Bean was the widowed postmistress in town. She and the sheriff were rumored to be an item, but that wasn’t the sort of thing people would speculate about out loud. Except for Marcy. She often got away with outrageous comments, even ribald jokes, where someone else would get called to task for it.

  The sheriff twisted on his stool to face Owen and Red, melting their inquisitive stares with a derisive glower.

  The way Marcy saw it, Mrs. Bean had been widowed for twenty years, the sheriff had never married, and if they took some comfort in each other, well, more power to them. But harassing the sheriff had become a daily ritual for Marcy. It was just so easy. In some ways, the big man was a gentle giant: huge and ruggedly handsome, and always at a loss for words. Other than a modest grin, he seldom had a comeback for her jibes and jokes. Years ago, even before he’d become county sheriff, when Marcy was the star of the local high school basketball team, he’d attended all her games, all the way to the state tournament in Minneapolis her senior year. He’d been her biggest fan, and she’d never forgotten that. So even though she loved him like an older brother, Marcy figured it was his job to enforce the rules now, and her job to bend them, so it seemed only natural that they should remain close friends.

  Fastwater’s expression softened when he looked at Marcy. “Mrs. Bean is just fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “Did you have lunch together?” Marcy enjoyed making the big man squirm.

  Fastwater smiled. “Yes, we did—tuna fish sandwiches. But she’s pretty busy today, so I didn’t stick around.”

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nbsp; With no juicy gossip forthcoming, Red nodded his goodbyes and headed home for his afternoon nap. Owen grabbed his boxed-up sandwich and prepared to leave for work. Marcy topped off the sheriff’s cup while taking another long glance at the grime-covered fish on the wall. There should be just enough time to get up there on the stepladder, she figured, before the day shift regulars arrived.

  A pair of swinging doors led to the back of the restaurant and the kitchen and storage areas. Cleaning supplies, tools, shovels, and the stepladder were stacked along the back wall. Now that the breakfast and lunch shifts were done, the cook had cleaned up and left for the day. Other than some leftover bakery items and boxed-up cold sandwiches, the diner didn’t serve meals after the lunch hour. By late afternoon, the café would be closed.

  Letting herself through the twin doors, Marcy stopped when her eye caught the outside screen door slowly closing at the rear of the building. The door worked on a mechanical closer, and took several seconds to shut tightly. It was only used as an emergency exit and to haul garbage out to the dumpster. She watched as the door silently swung shut.

  A little unnerved, Marcy paused for a moment in the doorway. Thinking it over, she knew from experience that the closer mechanism was stiff enough to prevent a wind from blowing the door open. And no one had gone out, she would have seen them. That left only one alternative: someone must have just come in. The kitchen was a wide-open space, with nowhere to hide, and a quick glance revealed the room to be empty.

  Facing the storage area, she called softly, “Hello?”

  No response.

  She knew there wasn’t much reason for anyone to sneak in the back door. There wasn’t anything of value back here to steal. Then she remembered the sheriff and Leonard sitting at the counter on the other side of the swinging doors, just fifteen feet away. Their presence bolstered her nerve, alleviated her fears. On a whim, she called, “Agda, is that you?”

  Then she saw a child’s hand on the floor, just at the back corner of a set of storage cabinets. As she watched, the hand disappeared from view. The intruder being a child brought a smile of relief to her face, but still presented a mystery. She stepped deeper into the room.

  “Agda?” she said again, this time as a diversion so she could quietly approach the cabinet. “Come on out here, Agda.”

  Easing up to the edge of the counter, Marcy leaned over to peek behind it. A young boy knelt on the floor, arms covering his head as if that would magically make him invisible.

  “Ben?” she said. “Ben Simon? Is that you?”

  He didn’t move, other than to shake slightly from crying. Marcy crouched beside him to rest a hand on the boy’s arm.

  “Ben? It’s Marcy. Are you okay?”

  Still no response. Marcy jumped when another form materialized from the shadows behind the counter.

  “Abby!” she exclaimed.

  Ben’s sister knelt beside the cowering boy and put an arm over his shoulder. To Marcy, she said, “We skipped school today. He’s afraid of getting caught.”

  “Oh, Ben,” Marcy said. “Come on, I’m your friend. I won’t tell on you.” Kneeling on the other side of him, she stroked Ben’s head, all the while looking at Abby. “So what are you doing here, then?” she asked. “Surely you didn’t skip school to hang out in the café?”

  Abby ignored the question. Instead, she urged her brother to raise his head and look at them. When he did, Marcy was surprised to see so many tears and a runny nose. Pulling a tissue from her work apron, she held it up to Ben’s face until he took it himself and wiped his nose.

  “Who’s Agda?” he asked in a tear-stained, crackling voice.

  Marcy laughed. Using a thumb to wipe away another tear at the corner of Ben’s eye, she said, “Agda is a ghost. But she’s a good ghost, and a friend of mine.”

  Familiar with Marcy’s eccentric behaviors, Ben started to smile, but when he opened his mouth to speak again, Abby quickly interrupted. “We skipped school to go fishing today, that’s all.” She gave Ben a hard look as she continued. “We can’t go home until after Dad gets home from work. He always gets home before us when we’re in school.”

  Marcy nodded, still stroking Ben’s head affectionately. “Well, he ought to be home by now. He just left here.”

  “We were going to get something to drink while we waited, but we saw the sheriff’s car out front, so we snuck in the back door.

  Ben asked, “You promise you’re not going to tell the sheriff?”

  “Of course not. You don’t think you’re the first ones in town to skip school, do you?”

  Ben sat quietly, comforted by Marcy’s tender attention. He’d stopped crying, but she thought he looked exhausted, with his glassy-eyed stare of shock. “I’ll get you something to drink,” she said. “Just sit tight.” She glanced around their darkened hiding place behind the counter. “Where’s your fishing gear?” she asked.

  The loss of their equipment finally hit Abby. Now it was her turn to become silent and pale. And it wasn’t just her new fishing pole, either. Their school backpacks were out at the lake, too, with her name and address in her notebook. Abby suddenly felt sick.

  Then Ben piped up. “I think we left our gear out back of the restaurant.”

  Abby swung a dazed expression on her brother. She needed time to consider this new predicament, so Ben’s sudden ability to think on his feet came as a relief, and could buy her the time she needed to make a plan to retrieve their backpacks.

  Marcy smiled and patted Ben on the back. “Well, okay, then,” she said. “Wait here. I’ll be right back with some drinks.”

  Barging back through the swinging doors, Marcy saw the sheriff on his feet, talking on his cell phone. Leonard stood at the door, looking outside into the bright sunshine.

  “We got a call,” Marlon said to her, putting the phone away and reaching for his trooper hat. “Thanks for the coffee.” A five-dollar bill stuck out from under his cup.

  With their sudden departure, the café became eerily quiet. Marcy reached for the soda glasses, all thoughts of the giant lake trout once again gone.

  THREE

  Matthew Simon

  It was Ben’s turn to prepare dinner that evening. Of course, being only eight years old, he usually got help from his father or Abby, but he insisted on taking his part in the rotation of family cooking duties. Tonight, Ben had responsibility for the meal, Abby had clean-up, and their father had the evening off. Tomorrow night, Abby would be off duty, while their father cooked and Ben cleaned up. This system had served the family well ever since the children’s mother left them over a year ago.

  Matthew Simon had always stressed the importance of sitting down for dinner together as a family, even long before his wife had left. Over time, it had become a tradition that all of them looked forward to and valued. Taking turns with the cooking and clean-up chores gave each of them some ownership in the ritual. Even though his wife had missed many of these evenings together during the last few months she lived with them, Matt had been gratified to see that his children expected the family dinners to continue. If anything, he thought Abby and Ben had solidified the tradition by creating the rotating chores schedule, but they all used the time together to help each other fill the glaring hole at the table.

  Abby had been sticking close to her younger brother all afternoon, worried that he might say something to their father. Aware of his listless attitude in the kitchen, she said, “I’ll help you with dinner, Ben. Let’s make taco goulash—it’s your favorite.”

  And for a while, as the pasta boiled and Ben stirred in taco seasonings, the events of the day faded enough to allow his appetite to emerge. But it quickly disappeared when, with their father out of earshot reading the newspaper in the front room, Abby quietly asked, “How are you doing now, Ben? Are you feeling any better?”

  His stomach flip-flopped and the butterflies resumed their sickening flights. “No, Abby. We saw a dead person today. I don’t feel any better at all.”

 
Taking a turn at stirring the hotdish, she said, “Well, you can’t say anything to Dad. We have to act like nothing is wrong. If I can figure out a way to get back out to the lake and find our backpacks, in a day or two all this will be over.”

  Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think this is going to be over for a long time.” Looking at his sister, he asked, “Who do you think the dead person was?”

  Abby affected her most grown-up, sympathetic smile. “I have no idea. But the man we saw isn’t from around here—his car had license plates from Illinois. None of it is our business. We just have to act normal until we get our stuff back. Can you do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Abby slipped an arm around her brother’s shoulders and spoke softly. “You have to, Ben. Give me time to find our backpacks, and I promise everything will be okay. I know it’s hard, and it’s my fault for getting you to skip school. But if you keep quiet for another day or two, I promise I’ll make it up to you this summer.”

  Ben twisted away from her arm. “I have to set the table.”

  “Ben?”

  “I’ll try, Abby,” he snapped.

  • • • • •

  Matt couldn’t take all the credit for the idea of eating dinners together. The household he’d grown up in had taken meals together, too, but whereas his children seemed to sincerely enjoy the ritual, he and his brother had tried every excuse imaginable to get out of it. In his parents’ house, a small kitchen table took most of the available space in the cramped kitchen nook. His father had sat at one end, his back to the main kitchen, with his mother and Matt’s older brother Daniel, at either elbow. Being the youngest and smallest, Matt had sat across from his father, jammed in against the back wall and blocked from escape by his mother and brother. One year they’d added an electric coffee pot to the table, and because the closest available outlet was on the wall behind Matt, the percolating, steaming machine had further crowded him in. But as bad as that was, it was a good deal better than his brother’s seat, which was within a backhanded slap of the old man.