Fever Tree

by Tim Applegate

  Unable to assimilate what Maggie had just told him, Frank waited a few seconds before forming his next question. He left?

  Yep.

  Just like that?

  Just like that.

  Her father was momentarily speechless, some essential part of his psyche still suspended in disbelief.

  He didn’t shout? He didn’t scream?

  Not a whimper.

  And you don’t think he’ll come back? You don’t think he’ll get drunk some night and, you know . . .

  Maggie reached over to pat her father’s knee. Look, I know it’s been hard for you ever since Colt and I got together, for you and Mom both. I know you never approved of him, and believe me, I understand why. But for all his faults he never raised a hand to me, Dad, or to Hunter either. Not once. He hits guys. He hits drunks. When they get out of hand, he hits his friends.

  What he’s paid for, Frank gasped.

  That’s right. Because he lives in this . . . netherworld, Teddy Mink’s world. And it’s changed him, Dad. It’s turned him into someone I don’t even recognize anymore.

  Frank nodded in commiseration. Well I know he loves that boy. I do know that much.

  As their conversation faded into silence Maggie heard, from the back room, the unmistakable whine of an orbital sander. She looked over at her father, who was staring into the middle distance, imagining life without Colt Taylor after all. It was like imagining a vacation, a long road winding through the heart of some cool, misty mountains. The clouds broke open to reveal a snow-capped peak, and Frank’s heart soared.

  Is that a sander?

  Sporting a beatific smile now, her father tilted his head at a funny angle, like a birder listening for the tweet of a distant junco. Yes, dear, I believe it is.

  But I thought Cory took a powder.

  He did.

  Then who’s running the sander?

  Frank shrugged, so relaxed now he thought he might crumple to the floor and just lay there awhile, daydreaming. Colt Taylor, banished! Dieter, he murmured. That would be Dieter.

  Who?

  Dieter!

  Who the hell’s Dieter?

  Suddenly energized, Frank hopped to his feet, reached out a fleshy paw, and lifted Maggie out of her chair. C’mon, honey, I wanna show you something. You’re not gonna believe this.

  With a sweep of his hand Frank presented the tea cart Dieter had refinished the previous week, prominently displayed now next to the front window. The cart’s mahogany veneer, formerly curled and chipped beyond repair, or so Frank had assumed, now lay flat as a bed sheet, crowning a cluster of legs. The water stains that once marred the top had miraculously vanished. And the new satin finish—five coats of lacquer, Frank crowed—gave the cart the kind of patina collectors treasured.

  Stunned by the transformation of this once-forgettable object that had moldered for years in a far corner of the showroom into something that might look at home in Buckingham Palace, Maggie could only mouth one long Wow.

  This Dieter, he did that?

  He certainly did, Frank replied. Guy’s a craftsman, old school.

  Maggie ran a hand across the top of the cart, which was smooth as stainless steel. She was genuinely impressed by the handiwork, and yet at the same time a troubling thought took root. It’s beautiful, Dad, but . . .

  But what?

  Well look, I know business has been a little slow.

  And?

  And work like this—she nodded at the tea cart—must be pretty pricey, right? What I mean is, can you really afford this guy?

  In a spasm of joy Frank flung an arm around Maggie’s shoulder and gave her a mighty squeeze. Well that’s the beauty of it, honey. Dieter works for free!

  As Maggie was struggling to cope with this bizarre and unsettling revelation, Dieter strolled out of the back room, wiping his hands on a shop rag. He caught sight of the woman standing next to the front counter and immediately recognized her from the photograph Frank had shown him a couple weeks before. Maggie, the first born. With that tangle of curly red hair framing her cameo-like face, she reminded him of a young Colleen Dewhurst strolling down the sidewalks of Seattle with the Duke himself in McQ. Speaking of the devil, Frank gushed, here he is! C’mere, boy, I wancha to meet someone!

  Stunned beyond speech, unable to croak out even a simple hello, Maggie offered the gorgeous young man she had last seen swimming naked across her pond her limp, tentative hand.

  16

  On sweltering summer days like this one Hunter liked to go over to Aunt Lureen’s house because his cousin Toby had an awesome swimming pool and a killer swing set and a mother who whipped up batches of goodies for them to munch on to their hearts’ content, chocolate chip cookies and pb&j sandwiches and sometimes, on special occasions, banana splits. So when Maggie shook him awake on Saturday morning, the first weekend since Colt had left, and asked him what he would like to do today, he didn’t hesitate.

  Go to Lureen’s! Please, Mama, can we go to Aunt Lureen’s?

  Of course, Lureen said on the phone. Why don’t we make it a slumber party? I’ll grill up some burgers and the boys can eat outside.

  Thanks. I’m sure they’d like that.

  To prevent Toby, who was sitting at the kitchen table shoveling away at a bowl of Rice Krispies, from overhearing her, Lureen lowered her voice. The way I figure it, Mag, after what you’ve been through? You could probably use a little time alone.

  Or with some absolute hunk of a man, a stallion, Maggie thought wildly. Ridin’ tall in that saddle again! On her way to Hunter’s bedroom she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the hallway mirror and wondered not for the first time in recent days just who in the world this hussy was. Lately she had fallen under the spell of a series of elaborate fantasies and erotic dreams, like the one last night featuring her and Dieter swimming buck naked in the warm, shallow waters of the pond. In her five years with Colt she had not strayed once, not once, but now that he was gone something in her libido had broken loose, a live wire carrying enough voltage to light up an entire town. In idle moments she felt ashamed of herself even though she hadn’t done, strictly speaking, anything at all. She was almost thirty. It was an itchy age.

  While the kids splashed around in the pool, Maggie and Lureen kicked back on the patio with Virgin Marys topped by stalks of fresh celery, the leaves still on.

  You remember that church at St. Teresa’s, Mag, the one we used to go to when were kids?

  St. Teresa’s? Sure, I remember it.

  Well the funniest thing, I’ve been dreaming about that old church for two or three nights in a row now, those stained glass windows and that altar rack with all the votive candles. We each lit one when Grammy died, remember?

  Maggie flushed, feeling soiled. Little sister dreaming about chapels while I imagine men in black leather chaps spreading my legs open in the shadows of their phallic Harleys. What did it all mean? Fortunately Lureen’s husband Charley chose that moment to come home, to burst through the patio door and derail Maggie’s dark train of thought by giving her such a spirited hug she feared her spine might crack. Good old Charley, a hugger and a hand shaker, a hale and hearty fellow born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and damn grateful for it, too. So what if he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier? Sometimes it was better to be pure of heart, Maggie decided, than keen of outlook. Besides, as long as Charley kept his nose clean he would inherit his father’s newspaper anyway, and little sister wouldn’t have to work another day for the rest of her strange, enchanted life.

  You look like a million bucks, Mag. Charley’s voice was a megaphone, his enthusiasm charmingly boyish, his eyes like tiny black pearls buried in the fleshy folds of his face. He was tall and broad-shouldered and gregarious, but he bored easily too, and girl talk was basically incomprehensible to a man like him. After lingering for awhile on the patio, hooting a
t the kids in the pool, he executed a clean escape. Almost immediately the television in the study rattled on and Lureen smiled apologetically at her sister to indicate her love for the big clod, warts and all.

  And why not, Maggie thought with a twinge of envy. Why shouldn’t she love her man? He didn’t cut up his friends with beer bottles or mule dope down to Islamorada or kowtow to criminals like Teddy Mink. He went to work in the morning and came home at night and tucked his child into bed. Life, after all, was a series of compromises, and when you came right down to it Lureen, by embracing those compromises, had done just fine. In sisterly accord Maggie lifted her Bloody Mary to Lureen’s good fortune just as Charley turned the volume up on the mechanical laughter of a crowd of rubes in L fuckin’ A responding, without a trace of spontaneity, to the guy with the cue cards.

  So it didn’t take him long, huh?

  Maggie stirred her drink with the celery stalk. Didn’t take who long?

  Colt.

  Maggie hesitated, eyeing her sister sideways. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lureen. And I’m not sure I wanna know.

  Shacking up that way.

  Shacking up what way?

  With Nicky Meyers!

  It was as if little sister had pulled the latch securing the trap door. Maggie dropped seven excruciating feet; then the noose snapped.

  Nicky Meyers? The stripper? Are you kidding me?

  You mean you hadn’t heard?

  I hadn’t heard!

  Later Lureen suggested yet another upcoming church function—some kind of barn dance this time, replete with bales of alfalfa—but Maggie blew her off. She pictured a pod of Christian hayseeds circling around her quoting passage after passage from the Book of Whatever. I’ll think about it, she said, meaning, no. Say goodbye to Charley for me. And thanks for watching the boys.

  She gave Toby and Hunter a departing wave, deciding on her way out that Lureen was right, a quiet night alone would do her battered spirit a world of good. She’d stop at that new Cajun sandwich shop and pick up a muffaletta positively oozing with garlicky oil. Toss back a couple glasses of Chardonnay out on the dock to take the edge off, then a puff or two of weed. What harm would a couple tokes do? Comfortably numb, she’d watch perch nip mayflies while the moon, that trusty old balloon, rose over the white cedars. And wasn’t there an old Hitchcock on the tube tonight, Marnie, maybe, or The Birds?

  But as she was pulling out of Lureen’s driveway Maggie noticed, to her dismay, none other than Dieter strolling down the opposite sidewalk, and her plans abruptly changed. On an impulse she began to tail him, to stalk him, driving slowly through the town’s elegant Victorian neighborhoods, pausing every few minutes to let her quarry surge ahead.

  Ten minutes later, when Dieter finally circled back to the town square, Maggie swung into a parking space right behind him and tooted her horn. At the sight of her, Dieter’s face lit up.

  Maggie!

  Don’t let him fool you, her inner voice cautioned. Don’t let him charm you the way he apparently charmed Dad. Remember why you’re here.

  Hey, Dieter.

  Hey.

  Maggie climbed out of her jeep, realizing that it was too late to turn around now and drive back home. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you like this but I think you and I need to talk.

  Sure. Here? An outstretched hand indicated the plaza. Right here?

  Right here.

  Fine. So what’s on your mind, Maggie?

  She glanced across the plaza. Near the junction of the two walkways that crisscrossed the center of the square, Uncle Billy was down on his knees digging up a flowerbed with a hand spade. Next to him was a tray of miniature roses.

  What’s on my mind, Dieter, is my dad. It was a flat, emotionless statement Maggie hoped would elicit some kind of knee-jerk reaction, something to confirm her suspicion that Dieter had an ulterior motive for befriending Frank. But her quarry remained silent, assuming a zen-like calm.

  Unable to decipher this lack of response, Maggie stumbled on. Look, I don’t know anything about you, okay? Where you’re from or why you’re here, in Crooked River. And I don’t wanna know. It’s none of my business. But my dad, well . . . my dad is my business.

  Another uneasy silence, Dieter waiting, Maggie’s nerves lit . . . Look, man—

  You wanna know what my angle is?

  This bald, abrupt statement so emboldened her she couldn’t keep the sneer out of her voice. Well that’s one way of putting it.

  Overhead a noonday sun was burning a hole in the sky. If they were going to talk, Dieter suggested, they had better get out of this heat. He pointed to a nearby bench in the shade of one of the red oaks. Where they sat side by side with enough space between them to maintain the emotional distance Maggie’s combative attitude had already established. Dieter folded his hands in his lap and Maggie felt a sudden surge of pity for the man. I don’t mean to get up in your face like this, she said, but I’m confused.

  About what?

  Like he didn’t know? Once again Maggie’s suspicion overwhelmed her halfhearted attempt at civility. In her mind she saw her dad standing next to the new chifforobes with that goofy grin on his face. That’s the beauty of it, honey; Dieter works for free!

  Can we cut to the chase here, Dieter? Can we skip the bull?

  He lifted his hands palms up and said Fine, not intimidated, as far as Maggie could determine, though certainly leery. He would be a hard man to trap—too careful, too watchful—so she went ahead and laid her cards on the table instead. Why dick around? No one, she announced gravely, staring at the side of his face, works for free. Okay?

  He turned toward her with a look, if she wasn’t mistaken, of bemusement. Oh, that.

  Yeah, that.

  They each took a breath, like two boxers retiring to their respective corners at the end of the first round. Across the plaza Uncle Billy placed one of the miniature roses in the small cavity he had just dug. Meanwhile Dieter stole a shy glance at her and she noticed that his eyes were the palest blue, the sky at sunrise, or the harbor in the middle of the day.

  I met your dad one night by accident, out in front of his store. We got to talking and we hit it off, that’s all. I like the guy. I like to listen to his stories.

  Maggie had the impression that it wasn’t easy for Dieter to open up, that he was basically a listener, an observer, ego free. Which meant in bed (which she tried, in vain, not to imagine) he would be attentive, generous, precise. She tempered her tone.

  So you offered to do some work for him.

  That’s right.

  For free.

  A small, crooked smile. Well, not exactly free.

  Maggie gathered her thoughts, thrown off balance again. Dieter might have been amused by these stabs at friendly banter but her emotions were as tangled as a briar patch, suspicion, irritability, and raw physical attraction all rolled into one. Moreover, she’d forgotten how to flirt.

  Not exactly free? What’s that supposed to mean?

  He buys my lunch.

  Your lunch?

  When I work, he buys my lunch.

  And that’s when you listen to his stories.

  Exactly.

  She wasn’t about to give in this easily. Yeah, well, lunch isn’t much of a paycheck, is it.

  Hey, those are some pretty darn good lunches!

  She had to admit that this side of him—his mischief—was terribly attractive. And his explanation was just bizarre enough to be true. God knows her dad could tell some whoppers.

  When Dieter, without warning, reached over and touched her hand—a slight pressure of fingertips against her knuckles—she almost jumped out of her skin. I understand your concern, he murmured, and his voice was as gentle as the breeze that soughed in the boughs of the oak they were sitting under. You’re being protective. I admire that. For a time he wa
s silent again, withdrawing his hand and staring across the plaza at Uncle Billy, who was spreading around the miniature roses rings of cedar mulch.

  Let me tell you something, Maggie, when your dad talks about you . . .

  For a blind moment she wanted him to touch her again, to rub her arm or pat her shoulder or lean over and whisper in her ear exactly what Frank had said.

  When he talks about me what?

  Dieter thought about it for awhile, measuring his response. When he talks about you there’s a kind of . . . adoration in his voice.

  The men Maggie knew didn’t speak this way, didn’t use words like adoration.

  Love, she whispered.

  Yes, love. Unconditional love.

  Uncle Billy hobbled down the flower row. As long as Maggie could remember, the old gardener had been here, tending his beds. But one day he wouldn’t be. One day she’d pick up the newspaper and see the poor man’s ancient, weathered face on the obit page. Dieter was still talking but Maggie no longer registered his words. She was watching Uncle Billy on his knees again, planting miniature roses. The old gardener would die soon and in time Frank and Janice would too. And then all the rest of us, her and Dieter and Lureen and Charley and everyone else, even Hunter. One day in the not so distant future, every single person walking around the town square today would be nothing but dust, ashes and dust. It was intolerable.

  Since this is bothering you so much, Dieter was saying, I think the best thing for me to do is march on over to the store and tell Frank I can’t work there anymore. Tell him I better quit. Tell him I’m leaving town.

  But you can’t do that, Maggie practically shouted. The expression on her face when she whirled toward him was a summer storm: gusty wind, banging shutters, spitting rain. Her hair was the color of fire.

  But I thought that’s what . . . I mean I thought—

  You thought what? That you’d just up and leave?

  Well I thought—

  Who’ll have lunch with him then? Who’ll listen to his stories when you’re gone? No sir, I’m afraid you can’t do that. All of a sudden she felt delirious, crazed with joy, one step away from delirium. She flashed him a toothy smile.