by Bill Cameron
I push myself to my feet, move into the kitchen and all but knock Ruby Jane on her ass.
She backs up into the opening between the kitchen and the counter area up front, hands clasped at her waist. The shoulders of her jacket are spotted with rain.
“Jesus, Skin, you scared the hell out of me.”
“That’s what all the girls say.”
I can smell her shampoo, the crisp scent of apples. Ruby Jane has been letting her hair grow out, and it hangs loose over her shoulders. With some surprise I notice a few strands of grey at her temples, a dash of salt with the cayenne.
“I’m going to make some tea. You want something? Maybe we can talk.” She won’t make eye contact. I’m not used to that. Ruby Jane has never been one who let discomfort unsettle her. “If you want.”
A knot forms in my stomach, and I half wish I’d found somewhere else to make my call. Yet even as the thought blossoms, I know this awkward collision is exactly what I’d hoped for by coming here this morning.
“Sure.” I nod and manage an awkward smile. “Back here? Or—”
“Go grab a table up front. I’ll join you in a minute.”
She doesn’t want to be alone with me. I can’t blame her.
Four Years, Seven Months Before
When It’s Safe
Stuart hadn’t come home, or if he had he’d slept on the couch and was up and gone again before she woke. Not that Ellie cared. She was content to sleep alone. But with Stuart out she was stuck with the farm pickup. No heater, rust eating through the floorboards, and winter hanging on into April like a tick on a yard dog. It was anybody’s guess if the truck would even start. The carburetor had been rebuilt so many times the walls of the float bowl were thin as paper. And her with an eight mile drive into Westbank.
It couldn’t be helped. Ellie needed to see Luellen. Stuart would be no use to her. She almost laughed imagining his reaction to the news.
“My father called, Stuart. Brett is dead.”
“I thought you didn’t like Brett.”
“That’s not the point. He’s my brother.”
“Well, what did the dumb ass think was going to happen, enlisting in the middle of a war?”
These last few years, Kerns had been dying off like pigs with swine fever. First her mother, eaten alive by bone cancer. Rob followed, stabbed in the parking lot of the Kla-Mo-Ya Casino in Chiloquin. No one even knew why he’d gone up there, though dark rumors of drug deals and gambling debts filtered back to Givern Valley. Ellie didn’t know what to believe. Myra alone was proof enough being a Kern was no guarantee of clear thinking or virtue. Not long after Rob’s death, on the very day his farm went up for bank auction, Brett joined the Marines—an act he admitted was born of a need to feel like a man again. Now a man in a flag-draped box. Of the Givern Kerns, once a large and sprawling clan, only her father survived from her parents’ generation. Among her own generation, siblings and cousins alike, just Ellie and Myra lingered, though Myra hardly counted anymore—for her, the valley served only as a layover between broke and desperate.
For the time being, her father was on his feet, active and busy, if weighed down by the deaths of so many he cared for. Instead of her brothers to act as hands he hired locals, but he still ran the farm, still drove the combine in the spring and the harvester in the fall, still hauled the water trailer out to the pigs at pasture. But he wasn’t getting any younger. With Rob and Brett dead and Myra off chasing crystal meth, Ellie alone remained to care for Immanuel Kern in his failing years. The task of planning Brett’s memorial service would fall to her.
She layered up against the cold, scarf tight around her aching neck, then made her way to the equipment shed to get the battery off the charger. Lugged it to truck port and dropped it under the hood. Couple squirts of ether into the air intake. Her breath was like smoke as she climbed behind the wheel and turned the key. Out past the plowed fields she could see snow on the rocky uplands.
The truck was a blocky F-150 older than she was—on its second engine, its third transmission, and she didn’t know how many sets of gaskets and rings. The cab still smelled of Lucky Strikes three years after Hiram bequeathed the truck to Ellie and Stuart. When she turned the key the starter growled and fought, but then the engine caught. The transmission was sloppy and as she pulled out across the frost-rimmed gravel driveway a cold draft rose between her feet. But the truck ran. She had a quarter tank of gas. On the way in she could check a few likely spots, the Cup ‘n’ Saucer or Hiram’s card room at the Big I Motor Inn. If she found the Tahoe, she’d take it and leave the pickup for Stuart. Serve him right if the damned thing broke down halfway up Little Liver Road.
Ellie had last seen Luellen just after Christmas, a couple of weeks before the miscarriage. Luellen’s attempts to go to school took her away from Westbank for months at a time. She didn’t say much, but from what Ellie could glean there was a boyfriend, someone who presented nicer than he turned out to be. Luellen hadn’t returned to Ashland for winter term. With help from her parents, she’d rented a little apartment above a hair salon in town.
Ellie didn’t see anyone else on the road until she came to the feed store at Four Mile Crossing. No sign of the Tahoe, though she saw Hiram’s Suburban in the lot among a half dozen other trucks and SUVs. No doubt Hiram was inside holding forth, the Givern Valley patriarch never shy about sharing an opinion if he could pin down an audience. She didn’t stop. A few miles farther the fields and rocky hills gave way to clusters of ranch-style houses and mobile home parks. Town was quiet, the streets devoid of traffic. She continued to Westbank Center, a dozen or so square blocks consisting of struggling businesses and local government buildings. Every third or fourth window along High Street featured a For Lease or For Sale sign. Good terms, motivated seller. A buyer’s market, fresh out of buyers. Twelve years before, the locals had passed a referendum to rename the town in the hope Westbank would be more palatable to outside investment than Little Liver. A pointless gesture. Whatever it was called, the town was too far from good slopes to attract skiers, too far from timber to support a mill, too far from Klamath Falls or the interstates to support manufacturing. The silver and copper mines had played out before her grandfather was born. For the most part, the rocky soil of the valley gave up only short season field corn and a little barley. Half the billboards along the county highway warned against the perils of domestic abuse, alcohol, or gambling. The rest advertised beer and Indian casinos. The growth industry in recent years was get-the-hell-out. For those who lingered, the choice was to try to pick up a rare county job or commute forty miles each way to K-Falls. Much of the good land was owned by the Spanekers, and they worked to buy the rest when they could. Even Brett’s farm had ended up in Hiram’s hands, picked up at auction after the foreclosure. Hiram offered to hire Brett as foreman, have him continue to work the land on salary, but Brett had already made his choice.
Ellie parked in front of the salon. Closed. After Luellen chopped it off so many years before, her mother had insisted on cutting her hair and did so until she died. Since then Ellie hadn’t thought about it much. Her hair had grown out some now, enough to brush her shoulders. Not that anyone noticed. Stuart paid little enough attention, and when she went out, to church or to the store, she bound it up in a knot on top of her head. The last time she’d been to a hairdresser was for her wedding.
An unmarked door between the salon and a locksmith led to the apartments above. Ellie entered the narrow foyer. The stairway was dark. There’d been a light at the top of the stairs when she’d come before. She hesitated, and found herself scanning the names written on torn strips of masking tape affixed to the vertical mailboxes on the wall inside the door. Luellen’s wasn’t among them. Had it been here at Christmas? She couldn’t remember.
A shadow fell across the doorway and she heard heavy footsteps come to a stop. She turned, felt her breath catch in her throat. Stuart peered in from the sidewalk. He was wearing his work clothes, canvas coat and co
veralls, and stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders up around his ears. “Hey.” He looked past her up the dark stairway. She felt herself shrink away from him.
“What are you doing here?”
He gestured vaguely with one hunched shoulder. “I saw the truck. Figured you were here to see your friend.” Voice quiet, a little tired. She listened for a trace of anger, surprised she couldn’t detect one.
“How did you know about this place? She’s only lived here a few months.”
“I don’t know. You hear stuff.” His weight shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s a small town.”
“Oh.” Dead air seemed to hang between them. Ellie felt off-balance, bewildered at Stuart’s uncharacteristic unease. “I know you don’t like me seeing Luellen. I just wanted—”
“Don’t worry about it.” She blinked at him. “Listen, I know how I’ve been. I also know you like her. It’s probably not fair for me to tell you who you can be friends with.”
He might as well have said he was running away to join the circus. “What’s going on, Stuart?”
“You don’t know.”
“Know what?”
He licked his lips, looked away. “I guess she’s gone.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She left. Moved away, something. A couple days ago.”
“How do you know that?”
“I told you. I hear things.”
Ellie turned and climbed the stairs to the second floor, the darkness of the stairwell forgotten. Luellen’s door was first on the right. She knocked. An echo sounded from within. She tried the knob, but the door was locked.
Stuart stepped into the foyer, looked up at her from the foot of the stairs. “I told you. She’s gone.”
Ellie pressed her forehead against Luellen’s door, worried her legs wouldn’t support the growing heaviness behind her breastbone. “How long have you known?”
“I don’t know. I’d have thought she’d call you or something. I never figured I’d have to be the one to tell you.”
Luellen had called, more than once in the days after Ellie lost the baby. But she’d never mentioned plans to leave Westbank. And they hadn’t spoken even by phone since the middle of February. It was the way things went since their lives diverged after Ellie and Stuart were married.
Ellie knocked again, the sound forlorn in the darkness. She didn’t want to cry in front of Stuart, but she feared she might not be able to stop herself. Perhaps she could wait him out, stay up here in the dark hallway until he left. But Stuart didn’t leave. “She’s really gone.” Ellie drew a sharp breath, then turned and came back down the stairs. Why didn’t Luellen tell her? A phone call, a note. Anything. The back of her eyes felt hot.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
She tried to push past him, but he put a hand on her arm. “Let go of me.”
“I need to say something first.”
She refused to look at him, afraid if he could see her eyes she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears any longer. “What do you want, Stuart?”
“Listen, I know it was bad, what happened with the baby and all—”
“Let me go.”
“Ellie, come on.” He never called her Ellie, not since high school. Always Lizzie. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Listen, I know I’ve done you wrong. I understand that. It’s just that my father, he—”
“Your father what?”
Stuart shrank away from the acid in her tone. She didn’t want him blaming his father for his own actions, though part of her knew Hiram Spaneker loomed behind so many ills in the valley. Stuart licked his lips. After a moment he let out a long breath. “There’s just so much pressure. You don’t know what it’s like. But I’ve been trying to figure things out. I want to make things better between us.”
“Stuart—”
“What if I said I was sorry? What if I said I want to change?” His voice now pleaded. “I don’t like how things have been. You so cold and upset all the time, and me, well—Ellie, it’s been lonely.”
She wished there was some way she could dig down inside herself, find a way to laugh in his face. But all she could do was press her lips together and stare at the backs of her eyelids.
“Remember when we were in high school? You used to let me take care of you.” He released her arm and moved away from her. She stole a glance his way, saw him jam his hands back into his coat pockets. “You used to like me.”
She was afraid he’d bring up Quentin Quinn, toss the name out as if it was a free pass for too many wrongs too long committed. But Quentin was no more excuse than Hiram. “That was a long time ago.” Or maybe it just felt like a long time. The burden of a lifetime bound up in a few short years.
“Give me another chance. I know I don’t deserve it. I know I’ve mistreated you. But I promise it’ll never happen again.”
She had nothing to say to him.
“Ellie? I promise.”
“I need to find out what happened to Luellen.”
She stumbled past him. Outside, snow had started to fall, dry crystals that seemed to evaporate before they hit the ground. The hair salon was still dark, the street as empty as her heart. Through a halo of tears she recognized the Tahoe parked up the block and headed for it, chin pinned to her chest—though against the cold or as a buttress against her own confusion she couldn’t say. All she could allow herself to think about was finding her friend.
She yanked open the door of the Tahoe, felt in her coat pocket for her keys. Stuart stood gazing at her from the apartment doorway. Grim-faced, his shoulders still hunched. He lifted one hand, a faltering half-wave. She slammed the Tahoe door, circled around to the pickup. He could keep the damned Tahoe. But that was all. It was too late for anything else. No words, no promises, could ever make up for her child dead in the toilet.
Yet she already knew how it would play out. Stuart would start talking to people, telling folks of his change of heart. About how he’d seen the error of his ways, how he now yearned to be a good husband. And people would work on her. Hiram Spaneker and his batty wife, Rose. The women at church. “Give him a chance. He’s a Spaneker, for pity’s sake.” Maybe even her father, though he’d never shown any fondness for Stuart. The cage would tighten around her, choking off her resolve. Luellen might serve as a lone voice of dissent, if only she hadn’t left Ellie alone, and without explanation. Ellie didn’t have Luellen’s options.
At the Granger house, Luellen’s mother said she’d gone away the week before, leaving a note on the kitchen counter and a stack of boxes in the basement. Mom and Dad, I need to get away from here. Please store my things. I’ll be in touch when I can. No one knew where she’d gone. No one knew why. Mrs. Granger hoped Ellie might have some news. But she already knew more than Ellie; she, at least, had gotten a note.
Ellie returned to the farm, loose and adrift. When Stuart came in that evening he washed up without having to be asked, then waited for her to notice him. She served his supper, salad and a bowl of chili, then sat with him while he ate. She nibbled cornbread, ate a flavorless slice of under-ripe tomato. He tried to keep a smile on his face, made small talk. Her father’s shoats were looking strong, almost fifteen hundred this year. The forecast called for a warm front to push through the following week. The creek was starting to bulge with snowmelt. Ellie listened without comment. He didn’t press her. But he also didn’t give up. Over the days that followed he made overtures, shared soft-spoken promises. Helped her organize Brett’s memorial service. He stood solemnly beside her in his black suit at the service, then helped her father across the thawing bog of the cemetery to the Tahoe. And when they got back home, he offered her a gentle embrace where in the past she’d known only his rough clench. She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t respond at all.
Every couple of days she’d call Mrs. Granger. They shared idle conversation about nothing. Two people hoping for news that never came, each seeking a thin comfort in their shared so
rrow. The day after Mrs. Granger told Ellie to stop being so formal, to call her Natalie, she and her husband died in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. They were returning from Klamath Falls where they’d met with a private investigator. Ellie asked Stuart to come to the funeral, but he made an excuse and she went alone. She had no idea if Luellen even knew what had happened.
Two months after Luellen’s disappearance, a letter arrived, an envelope with a Portland postmark but no return address. The note inside was typed, laser-printed on plain white paper. Unsigned.
Dear Ellie,
I hope you can forgive me. I know I should have talked to you first, but there was no time. I had to get away.
But I want you to know I’m okay. Sometimes you just have to drop everything and go, just leave it all behind. It’s such a mess. I can’t explain it all right now. I’m sorry.
Please don’t tell anyone about this note. I’ll be in touch again when it’s safe.
November 14
Police Investigating Attempted Assault
EUGENE, OR: Local police seek a suspect in an attempted assault of a University of Oregon student late Wednesday night. The suspect is described as about 5 feet, 6 inches tall, 160 pounds, wearing a dark-colored jacket, a scarf or bandana on his head, and medium blue pants. He may have a bite injury to a finger.
In a news release, police indicated the victim is female in her early twenties. She was riding her bike home at about 12:15 a.m., she told police. A man jumped out from behind bushes near the intersection of East 21st Avenue and Agate Street. She lost control of the bike and fell. In the ensuing struggle, the woman bit her assailant’s hand, at which point he fled into nearby Washburn Park.
The victim was taken to Sacred Heart Medical Center, where she was treated for a sprained wrist and contusions, then released.
