Heartbeat of the Bitterroot

by Janice Mineer

  I opened the door to the Staggering Ox and the smell of fresh-baked bread enveloped me. I looked around and saw Michael in the corner by the many houseplants crowding the front window.

  I smoothed my hair, straightened my jacket, and forced myself not to bite my lip.

  He smiled when he saw me and touched my elbow when I came close.

  “How did it go at the courthouse?”

  “Pretty well. I found a title with my mother’s name on it. There wasn’t time to look for a marriage certificate.” My eyes narrowed. “But there was a really uptight clerk. She practically ran me out of there.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “A little too protective of the county’s resources and materials? I’ve run into that.”

  “I guess. Maybe that was it.” I still felt unsettled, seeing her glowering face in my mind.

  “Well, let’s get you something to eat. I imagine you are starving. A little food may help you feel better.”

  I chose the “Rabbit Habbit” and Michael ordered “The Nuke.” He paid for our sandwiches as I filled the mason jars with water for our drinks. I watched him chat quietly with the teenaged server, calling her by name and making her smile.

  We sat at the thick wooden tables and waited for our food. He toyed with his napkin nervously.

  I tucked my hair behind my ear and forced myself to stop jiggling my foot under the table.

  “How was your work today?” I asked.

  “Good. Well, a lady did call at the last minute to see if she could make a change in her house plans, which we had all but finalized. I guess she does a lot of entertaining because she wanted space for three refrigerators—not two—worked into the blue print. I told her I didn’t have that much white-out.” He rolled his eyes. “But we did work out something in the adjoining pantry, so I think she’s happy.”

  I tried to concentrate on what he was saying as I took in his tanned, lightly freckled face and strong features.

  A group of noisy students came in the door, one of them packing a skateboard at his side. He narrowly avoided a collision with the server as she brought us our towering sandwiches packed with cheese or meat and bursting with lettuce. From then on it was a challenge to eat without wearing the sauce.

  “Jack and I came here a lot when we were in college. Did you?” Michael asked as we gingerly picked up the sandwiches and angled for the best place to attack.

  “I was a regular,” I said. “Most of my friends were downing Coke and cheeseburgers, but Bobbie and I loved it here.”

  There was a pause as we ate, then Michael asked, “When you came to live with the Pearsons … it was like being adopted for you, wasn’t it? Was it hard blending together as a family?”

  “Sometimes it was weird being the ‘cousin’ instead of the ‘sister.’ But as I look back, and especially as I listen to other people’s family stories, I don’t think we were any different than most families. You have your petty jealousies, your chronic annoyances, your fierce loyalties, and your moments of sheer bliss. My aunt and uncle stuck together at all times and that made the whole family hold together when the winds blew.”

  “Do you have a favorite memory from when you were kids?” Michael asked between bites.

  I thought a moment, savoring the delicious food. Memories at the ranch arose like an oasis in my childhood, a cool green place at the end of a long, bleak desert of struggles when I lived with my mother. One magical memory stood out.

  “There was one Christmas I remember especially well. I was twelve. We woke up really early, of course, on Christmas morning. The house was quiet and the light was dim. We sneaked into the living room and by the fireplace there stood three pairs of stilts, a pair for each of us older kids. I remember them being so tall. Mine were painted aqua, Jack’s were fire-engine red, and Angela’s were much smaller, with Hello Kitty stickers on them. Uncle Martin had made them and my aunt had painted them. We didn’t know if we were supposed to be up yet, so we just stood there quietly looking at them, running our fingers along the shiny surfaces. I’m not really sure how I knew what they were for—oh, I guess Jack knew and told us. When Martin and Ann got up, we took the stilts out into the garage because there was still snow on the ground and they showed us how to use them. We spent the rest of the afternoon on and off of them, learning to balance. It was such a simple, inexpensive toy, but it meant a lot to me that my aunt and uncle had made them for us themselves. Jack was really good at it from the start, but I picked it up before long. The next summer we dressed up as clowns and used them in a parade.”

  I looked at Michael trying to detect if I was boring him with my childhood memories. He had finished his sandwich and settled back into his chair. He smiled, his hands folded in front of him, his eyes on my face.

  “It sounds like you guys had fun,” he said, and I noticed how deep and warm his voice was, how kind his eyes were. “Sounds like they enjoyed having you in the family.”

  “I owe them so much, the Pearsons. I was very lucky to have them then. And now.”

  “I think they were lucky to have you.”

  I was absorbed by his intense gaze. How was it that he made me feel both comfortable and disarmed at the same time? I dropped my eyes to my lap.

  When I downed the last delicious bite of bread, I sighed. “Listen, I need a favor. My red chariot is dead. I had to walk down. Is there a chance I could get a ride home?”

  “Sure. Or I could help you with your car,” he volunteered.

  “No, really, Jack can do it. I think he has the insides of that thing memorized by now. And I think he comes home in the morning. But I do need to get home. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  He let me in the passenger side of his Explorer and pulled into the street.

  “How’s Emma?” I asked.

  “Great. My mother just enrolled her in a dance class and she’s crazy about it, really thrilled. Runs around the house doing pirouettes, or whatever they are, in her purple, sparkly tutor. Er, tutu. Is that what it’s called?”

  I smiled and nodded as he shook his head, mystified.

  When we arrived at my house, he came around to let me out of the car and walked me to the door. As we walked up to the porch, I noticed that light was coming from around the edges of the door. It was open slightly.

  “That’s odd. I’m sure I shut this. I thought I locked it,” I said with worry. I pushed the door open a bit.

  “Here, let me.” He stepped carefully in front of me and pushed through the door. He walked inside and looked around the living room. I followed him in.

  “Do you mind if I … ?” He gestured toward the rest of the house.

  “No, go ahead,” I said gratefully.

  He walked through the rest of the house, carefully checking behind doors and in closets. I waited, nervously removing my coat. I tried to remember what had happened exactly when I left that morning. Was I on the phone not paying attention? Had I not pulled the door tight?

  “Looks OK to me,” he said. “It’s just a good idea to check.”

  “It’s been such a nice neighborhood. I’m sure it’s all right.” My eyes narrowed. “It’s just that there was a problem recently—some graffiti on my window. I don’t understand why someone would do that. And there was a man outside my back door the other day when I got home. I’m wondering if it might have been the same man.” I shook my head. “It was probably just some teenagers that wrote on the window. Maybe the man was just a neighbor walking through the complex.” I toyed with the zipper on my jacket. I felt foolish, wondering if I’d just forgotten to pull the door shut completely when I left. “I’m sure it’s OK. But thanks so much for checking,” I said with embarrassment.

  “Do you want to call 911?” His face registered concern.

  “Actually, I called the other day. I’m sure they are watching out for problems.” He looked concerned so I added, “And I have a friend in the police department I can contact.” Bobbie’s brother Grant Stephens, who had had a crush on me s
ince we were kids, would take my call, I knew, even if there was no damage to my house or signs of an actual break in. Bobbie had been trying to put us together for years despite my quiet resistance. Grant had always been kind to me, and I knew I could count on him if I ever needed anything.

  Michael stood in my tiny foyer, folding and unfolding his black leather gloves. Finally, he smiled and said, “Well, good night, then.” He stepped out onto the porch, then turned back and said, “Thanks for coming to dinner.”

  “No problem. I mean, thank you. I really enjoyed it.” I felt awkward but longed to hold onto the moment, to have him close.

  He lingered on the porch, his hand on the doorknob. He stepped toward me, then stepped back again with a short, nervous laugh.

  I wanted to reach out and touch him—just lay my hand on his sleeve, but I felt like I once did when I was in a museum. It was the Corningware Glass Museum in New York. I walked among priceless glass vases and delicate, luminescent glass sculptures, yearning to touch their smooth surfaces and draw my fingers across their jeweled colors. I didn’t dare. I felt the same way now.

  “Thanks for checking out my house,” I said.

  “Sure.” He stood there, twisting his gloves, then cleared his throat. “Well, good night,” he said again and walked toward his car.

  I shut the door and leaned against the wooden panels, lost in thought. I hoped I would see him again soon. Little did I know then how very glad I would be to see him. And how deeply grateful.

  Chapter 22

  dc

  The next morning, I considered calling Grant about finding my door open, but when I picked up the phone I felt silly. I looked around and saw that nothing had been disturbed. The man at the door could have just been part of the lawn crew, couldn’t he? Or a meter reader? It puzzled me why he would run, though. I shook my head and clicked the off button on the phone, thinking I might call later.

  Jack picked me up and we went to pore over my dead car. Fortunately, he worked his magic and was able to breathe some life into the thing.

  “I owe you one,” I said, relieved.

  “Hey, book me on one of those free buddy flights for family,” he said. “I hear Bermuda is nice this time of year.”

  A

  That afternoon was a busy one at work and, in fact, so were the next two days. For some reason, the airport was thronged with passengers, most of them late and in a mad hurry to catch their planes. On my breaks, I was on the phone constantly, trying to reach my landlord to get a plumbing issue resolved. A leaking, steaming-hot water faucet was making my bathroom more like a sauna.

  And I was tired. Someone kept calling my cell phone late at night, waking me up. When I answered, they would hang up, then call back again until I finally shut off the phone. Once, I heard a man’s voice muttering, but couldn’t understand the words. I figured it was just some guy with a drinking problem, but it was making me uneasy. One morning, I spent twenty minutes on hold with the phone company trying to get someone to help me but finally gave up.

  I thought about the writing on my window the other day and wondered if I was being targeted, if someone had gotten hold of my cell number. I couldn’t think of anyone who would do this nor any reason why.

  Thursday, I came home exhausted. My feet ached and my head ached worse. I’d spent ten minutes in the grocery store line behind an angry woman trying to use someone else’s food stamps. On the way to my house, there was a traffic jam at an accident where two people stood shouting at each other beside their smashed fenders.

  At my door, I juggled a grocery bag and tried to fit my key in the lock. I wondered why the pot of flowers on my stoop was tipped over. Dirt was scattered down the steps. Neighbor’s cat, I figured.

  In the dim light of my living room, I threw myself down on the couch and dropped the groceries on the floor beside me. I was just pulling off my shoes when I noticed a drawer in one of the end tables hung open, part of its contents strewn across the rug below. An eerie feeling crept over me. The hair prickled on the back of my neck. A feeling I was being watched crowded into my chest. I heard a noise behind me, and I spun around, nearly falling off the couch. A man was standing in the shadows in the corner by the coatrack near the bedroom.

  My heart stopped. “What … how did you get in here?” I gasped.

  He moved a step toward me, slowly, not answering. Adrenaline shot through me, making my senses knife-edge acute. I noticed every detail—his stubble of dark beard, his bald head, the gray hooded sweatshirt under a baggy jean jacket, the frayed left pocket. His tennis shoes were untied. Black sweatpants, hole in the left knee.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked.

  Then I saw the gun. He held it in his hand, dangling it at his side, fingers trembling. My thoughts flashed to my nightstand drawer. I could see it in my mind’s eye; I saw the empty space where my gun once lay.

  “Of course, yes of course I remember you,” I lied, desperate to appease him.

  “It’s been a while. But I have thought about you every day. The pain reminds me of you every day.” His knuckles whitened around the butt of the gun. His finger quivered dangerously close to the trigger.

  Suddenly a light dawned. This was the man at the restaurant that day when Bobbie and I were there. He was watching me. He stormed out, dashing his plate to the floor.

  I fought to slow my breathing. Blood pounded in my temples. Think, Jenna, think. My eyes slid toward the door, but he edged left, blocking my way. I slowly backed away from the couch, foolishly cornering myself by the window. I looked around, wondering what was within reach that I could grab to defend myself with. A flimsy lamp? A heavy book?

  “Everything has gone wrong since that day. I am so lonely without her,” he moaned.

  “Without who?”

  “She was the only one who cared. Every day she asked me how I was doing.”

  “She did?” Keep him talking, I thought. Buy time.

  “She’d say ‘how was your night?’ She was happy to see me, I could tell. And now Renae won’t speak to me anymore. You got me fired, and now I can’t even go in to see her.”

  Renae. Renae Wilson, I thought. Always works mornings. Friendly—always smiles at everyone. Always happy to do whatever I assigned to her.

  “You were the night guard!” I exclaimed putting two and two together at last.

  “I am the night guard. I wait out in the parking lot every night. I watch over everyone. I watch over Renae. I am the guardian. But they told me to stay away—not to go inside. I can’t keep Renae safe when I can’t go in and see her. I can’t be sure she is all right. I have to take you with me. You have to explain to Renae, or she won’t come with me.”

  I fumbled in my pocket for my cell phone. Speed dial, push and hold. What was Jack’s cell number? Seven? Where was the seven? Push and hold. He and Michael—they went to play basketball every Thursday night. How many precious minutes away was the YMCA?

  “How did you get in here?” I asked again, my voice strained. I was stalling for time.

  If I call 911 they’ll ask questions, I thought, and I can’t respond. I fumbled in my pocket and without taking the phone out, pushed the speed dial number to Jack’s cell. He can call 911, I thought.

  “I have a key,” he said, holding up a small brass object.

  The open door the other night when I came home with Michael. That explained it. My mind was spinning. It must have been him by my side door the other day, and the lettering on the window …

  “How … how did you get a key to my house?”

  “You gave it to me.” He smiled, exposing yellowed teeth.

  “What?”

  “You put it on your desk and left it there so I could make a copy.”

  Two weeks ago, I forgot my keys at work. I used the key in the lockbox under the porch to get in the house.

  “Oh. I remember now,” I played along. My mind raced. Night guard. Name. Name. “Jared—is it Jared?”

  “Jeremy!” He raise
d a fist and violently smashed a picture on the foyer table to the floor. “It’s Jeremy Hunsaker!”

  I backed up, smacking into the bookcase, bumping my head. I held up my hands.

  “Jeremy, it’s OK! It’s OK.” My breath came in ragged bursts; my heart felt like it would pound out of my chest.

  I raised my voice louder, hoping it would carry through the fabric of my jacket into the phone in my pocket, hoping Jack was on the other end listening.

  “Don’t hurt me, Jeremy. I remember, it’s Jeremy.” If I screamed, Maggie next door wouldn’t hear me, not without her hearing aids. She probably took them out at night to sleep, and her granddaughter would be working.

  “Jeremy, I’m sorry I got you fired. You really did a good job. We never had any trouble when you were on duty. Please don’t hurt me. Please put down the gun,” I said loudly, hoping Jack could hear on the phone.

  “And I got blamed for that deal about the kids … they painted on the bathroom stall.”

  “I’m sure you couldn’t have …” I started.

  “That was not my fault!” he screamed, advancing on me a couple of steps. He waved his left hand wildly as he spoke, his voice cracking, the pitch escalating.

  I slid left along the wall, hoping to edge my way toward an opening to the back door.

  “I know! I know,” I said. “You couldn’t have done anything about it.”

  Keep him talking, I thought, fighting panic.

  “So, was it you who wrote on the window? It said, ‘I will not forget. You must remember.’ What was I supposed to remember, Jeremy? Tell me. I’m sorry. I’m not sure.” My throat was dry, and I licked my lips nervously. I stepped left again, and a vase tipped from the end table, skittering away across the tile floor, knocking hard against the baseboard. He jumped and cursed, raising the gun chest-high. I flattened myself against the wall. Sweat beaded on my forehead. To my left, I could see through my bedroom doorway. The covers from the bed were strewn across the room, and a spray of potting soil showed dark against the white carpet where a plant had crashed to the floor. A drawer from my jewelry chest lay upside down by the nightstand. Stones and gold chains gleamed in the dimness.