Permafrost

by Peter Robertson

  I asked if Patricia’s mother was aware.

  He said that she was, but that it wasn’t a subject to be discussed.

  And what about Patricia? I asked him.

  No. He was quite adamant there, his policy of honesty apparently hitting a solid wall. She didn’t know. And she wasn’t to know—ever. She wouldn’t understand.

  I thought he was right about that.

  Later that night another man joined us at the table for a few minutes. He was introduced as Andrew, and we studiously shook hands. His face was instantly familiar to me.

  Andrew Coburn was a prominent lawyer in the city, with a blonde socialite wife who was younger than he was. Alyson Coburn was conspicuously active in charity work, particularly for one of the city zoos, where she had gone so far as to pose in a tiny fake leopard-skin bikini, behind the bars of a monkey cage, for a recent promotion. On the next day, she had made the front page of the two city newspapers.

  Andrew and Ben talked for a while. Without meaning to, they largely ignored me. Later Andrew ordered a fresh round of drinks from one of the young men, who let him run his hand softly over the bulging front of his blue jeans as he slowly made change for a fifty-dollar bill.

  I looked at the aging hand. I looked at the smooth features of the young man, expecting to see disguised pity, or disdain, or a stolid acceptance. But I saw none of these things.

  Ben Wise’s stout heart burst open like a ripe cantaloupe one winter night. He died quickly and painlessly in the office above one of his three retail stores, working late, his nose pressed hard to the grindstone.

  Or so the official story went.

  And so we solemnly intoned, to each other, at the well-attended funeral service, where I searched in vain for at least one of the candlelit faces I had seen that night in the nameless bar.

  I remember wondering to myself if they might be mourning elsewhere.

  Several months after the funeral, I did run into Andrew Coburn again. Inevitably it was at a charity function where, at five hundred dollars a plate we were eating dry chicken, and helping a bold young theater group to purchase a newer and much larger venue.

  Later we slunk off together, to a nearby wine bar, with a secluded table in the back of the room, where, over two good glasses of the house Chardonnay, Andrew told me the real story of Ben’s death.

  He had died in the bar. Their bar. On Leather Night.

  Once a month, the young men dressed up in small leather G-strings that promised to hide very little. The older men tended to drink more on these occasions, and the place was subsequently louder and rowdier. The tips were much larger, and the expectations of the paying customers that much greater.

  Ben Wise had died on his knees, kneeling on the bar floor in a good suit, licking the leather-clad crotch of a young man named Steven, clutching a thick roll of twenty dollar bills in one hand and a smooth, firm barely post-teenage buttock in the other.

  Andrew told me that Ben had suddenly pulled away, a surprised look on his face, before doubling over and falling to the floor, thick blood suddenly erupting from his mouth and nose, his body twitching for the shortest time.

  Then he lay still. The music stopped. Steven knelt down in the blood and searched for a pulse. And the bar became still more silent as Steven held Ben’s hand and began to cry softly, keening like a repentant siren. And the crying was taken up by the others in the dark and otherwise silent room.

  Half an hour later, Andrew and another man cleaned up the body as best they could and drove to Ben’s store, where they left him hunched over an open ledger book, with a cold cup of coffee sitting beside his white bone-chilled hand.

  The police weren’t completely convinced. But the collective clout of the old men was too much for them, and the book on Ben Wise’s death was quickly and quietly closed.

  I had been right.

  Ben had been mourned elsewhere.

  In a chilled, bright motel room in a town called Harmony, I sat up wide awake on a soft bed, and imagined again the whole strange saga of Ben’s death. There was something in his tragedy of Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, and something else, the sleazoid lure of amphetamined gay leather imagery perhaps. Yet despite the surface weirdness, Ben Wise had surely managed to die the best way possible, enveloped in friendship, even love, and mourned by beauty.

  SEVEN

  When I woke next morning, the sun had burned away yesterday’s mist, and the rest of the day promised still more heat. Less than refreshed, I showered under gentle, tepid water and quickly dressed, sipping a complimentary cup of instant coffee.

  At the front desk, I attempted to strike a blow for the luddites.

  “You registered with a credit card, sir.” The girl behind the front desk was quick to tell me.

  “Yes,” I said, “but I would like to pay the bill with cash.” I spoke pleasantly.

  “We’re really set up for plastic,” she primly informed me.

  I essayed mild surprise. “And you can’t take actual money?” I asked evenly.

  “No. We can. It’s no problem. Really.” There was a slight pause. “Plastic is much easier for our records though.” She smiled tightlipped.

  I said nothing as she picked up my odious money.

  On the way out of town, I stopped at an office. The outside of the one-level building was largely plate-glass, and, inside, the knotty wood of late-sixties rec room vintage was aging rather badly. The marquee sign above the four-car parking lot read Harmony Realty. Inside I met the sole proprietors, Tom and Marcie Younger, partners in life and residential real estate sales.

  Both were large, loud, and shockingly friendly people, but happily the volume fell as Marcie headed for the door and a “real hot prospect.” Her pudgy fingers trilled a goodbye, and I noticed that her nail polish was shiny and violet.

  I was left all alone with her husband, Tom, who slapped a seat with the palm of his hand, sat down on the edge of a desk next to it, and asked me in a booming voice how in the heck he could help me.

  I lied to him.

  I began brazenly waxing lyrical on the joys of a summer house in the area. Nothing too remote. Somewhere near here perhaps. I naturally wanted a pretty location. Near a lake would be perfect. I was keen to look at a few properties. Could he help me?

  Managing not to lick his lips, he asked me about my price range.

  I told him the right place was more important than the price, and it was all he could do not to whoop out loud with glee.

  In an instant Tom Younger became a blur of industry and enterprise. Copying and stapling. Did I want coffee? That would be nice. Where was I originally from? Marcie just loved foreign accents. What kind of mileage does the Merc get? Did I have kids? I lied again then and told him yes. Kids were some kind of magic weren’t they? He said. I assured him that they surely were.

  In what seemed like seconds Tom had a thick folder and my second cup of instant coffee of the day placed in front of me. He had twenty listings inside the folder, all in what he liked to refer to as the “upper bracket.”

  On the outside of the folder was a map and his business card, which listed a home phone number, a car phone number, a work phone number, and a fax number. Tom even wrote a fifth number on the folder with a pen and a flourish.

  “The golf club,” he explained with an attempt at a sheepish grin. “It’s the only other place I’m ever at.”

  As I gingerly opened the folder Tom Younger got up from the desk, stood, leaned over my shoulder, inhaled deeply, and leveled his sights for the hard-sell.

  “Four of the best listings are all brand new ones,” Tom Younger said. “’Bout thirty miles north of here is Paddle Lake. Right here.” He stabbed at the map with his pen. “Named after the shape of the lake. Yeah. I know. It looks more like a bat. Heck, what do I know? Maybe someone thought Bat Lake sounded kinda dumb. What the hell. It’s a choice lo
cation is what it is. Here.” He pointed again. “This is the town of Paddle Lake, population nearly 9,000. Hell of a nice place. Quiet. Slow kinda. Couple of nice shops. A big supermarket that pretty much services the whole county. I can show you places in town. No problem there. But what I think you might like more is further out of town. More exclusive. More vacation-oriented. This here,” he pointed again, “is a quiet road that runs ‘round the edge of the lake. Beautiful piece of water. Maybe eight miles long and three across. Crystal-clear water. Sand for the kiddies to dig. The four new properties are all at what the locals refer to as the Handle. Five miles from town, at the southernmost point of the lake. Eleven pretty houses there all told. Ranch style mostly. All on the side of the road facing the lake. All with access to the private beach, a dock, even a tennis court. White sand beach naturally. Real nice bunch of residents. A few are year-round, retirees and families with young kids. School system here’s the pride of the state, let me tell you. But the year-rounders, that’s good for security. Shallow water for the kids to swim in. No rocks. Dock’s close to brand new. Not too many jet-skiers there yet.” He hesitated. “You don’t, do you?”

  I assured him that I didn’t.

  He looked relieved. “Excellent. Wise decision. Expensive pieces of Japanese crap that make a hell of a noise and piss most of the locals off.

  “Anyway,” he continued. “It’s a short drive to the town. Nice little town. A few good places to eat. Nothing fancy. But decent sized portions and a discount if you get there before six. Deep woodland all around the houses. Huge rural lots. A couple of the places I have are set back a ways from the road for privacy.” He seemed to run out of steam for a moment so I cut him off.

  “I’d like to drive around a bit, Tom.” I said. “Perhaps take a day or two and look for myself. The listings look extremely promising, and the map will be a lot of help. I’ll call you and let you know.”

  He’d clearly had a lot more to say. But he wasn’t about to blow a prospective deal with a show of pique.

  “That’s real good thinking, Tom. My advice to you? Drive real slow. Stop and look around. Talk to the natives. Get a feel for the place. A friendlier bunch you’ll never find. Breathe in the air. Then you find a place that catches your eye? You call me or Mar. We’ll be there in a flash and show you around.” He paused. “Now tell me this. Where are you gonna stay up there?”

  “I hadn’t really thought . . .”

  Tom had a ready answer. “I thought not. Listen. Your best bet’s Sandy Weller’s place. She has a huge barn of a house up there. It’s really a glorified B and B, Brit style, so you’ll feel right at home. And Sandy will give you a meal at night if you sweet-talk her right. Tell you what. I’ll call her right now. Tell her you’re on your way. Tennis pal of Mar’s. Before she had to give it up. Sandy’ll see you all right.”

  “There’s really no need.”

  Tom waved my objections aside. “My pleasure. Actually Sandy can be a bitch on wheels. If she feels like it. She’s a hell of a looker though. Not that I’m in the market, you understand? The original one-woman man. That’s Tom Younger here. Mar would have my nuts on a platter anyway.” He laughed loudly.

  With a lot more gusto and persuasion Tom Younger steered me to the door with my folder full of “shit-hot properties.” He crushed my hand in farewell before holding the door of my car open. Before I could get in, he stuck his head inside and whistled softly.

  “Is this the 500?”

  “No,” I said. “The 600.”

  He sniffed deeply at the leather. “She’s a hell of a machine, Tom. What did you say you did?”

  I hadn’t. I told him then.

  “Goddam!” he shouted good naturedly, “I’m in the wrong racket.”

  I drove away from Bridget Cassidy, Tom Younger, and the town of Harmony. I had two cups of acidic coffee inside me, and I was suddenly very hungry. The first two places I passed looked unappealing, and before I knew it I had left the town behind. It clearly didn’t pay to be too picky. My stomach grumbled, and I almost looked for the two Snickers bars before I remembered.

  The radio delivered either loud static or stations terminally locked in the seventies, so I turned on the CD changer and listened to Lucinda Williams instead.

  The folder was on the seat and I glanced at the front, at the map of the misnamed Paddle Lake, the town and the body of water, and the Handle, where the real estate market was jumping. Four properties for sale out of a total of eleven. Was that odd? If Tom Younger thought so he’d have been crazy to mention it.

  If I were Keith . . .

  It was a seriously flawed notion.

  It was a lake.

  And Keith apparently loved to swim.

  There were woods.

  And Keith loved to walk in woods.

  It was on the road that Keith had taken out of Harmony. Thirty miles or so by old bicycle.

  It was a quiet place.

  And if I thought Keith Pringle wanted anything in this world that had thus far conspired to royally screw him over, I thought he must surely want solitude.

  But the Handle was an upper-middle class place.

  And Keith Pringle wasn’t even classified.

  It was a place for families.

  And Keith was conspicuously all alone.

  But I had no other places in mind, and I sensed that I wouldn’t be getting any more intuitions. It was now a question of playing percentages.

  As Bridget had promised, the two-lane highway first cut through the middle of a forest preserve. The road wound some, usually attaching itself to the wayward shoreline of several small lakes, but just as often shifting randomly, or else adhering to rules defined long ago, for farmland no longer tilled, and fields no longer fenced.

  Close to the lakes, I passed innumerable bait shops, and places renting the much-loathed jet skis. I noticed cherry stands outside tumble-down houses with their siding falling away, the finned wrecks of Detroit history rotting metallically outside more than a few of them.

  The preserve was green and lush from the summer, which had been an unseasonably wet one. Three wild turkeys stood pencil-legged and scrawny at the side of the road and watched me pass.

  I purposely drove the Mercedes slowly. Not slow enough to approximate the speed of a man in poor health on an old bicycle, but slow enough to notice the places where he might have stopped. I reasoned that Keith Pringle had taken this road. It was the one he had started out on. It boasted few exits. It was a minor road heading north. It appeared to be the most scenic route, and, unlike the major state highways, it allowed cyclists.

  I passed a gas station bereft of the usual convenience store attachment. I assumed he would have had little need of gasoline. But he might have needed air for his tires. Or directions. Or a restroom. Or a drink of tepid water from a tap that poured into a grease-stained sink.

  But I wasn’t sure. And all I was really doing was hazarding wild guesses about a person I once knew slightly, who had surely changed beyond all emotional, mental or spiritual recognition, and who meant little to me, until a few days ago, when he reentered my life on a baffling and possibly tragic tangent.

  A waitress in a small diner wiped off the top of the cash register with a bottle of generic glass cleaner and a piece of paper towel. She wore a pale blue uniform that was stretched tight around her hips and gaped loose at her chest, where a nametag said Ginnie in curly script letters. I ordered some coffee and blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, silently wondering if the syrup would be real maple.

  Ginnie read my mind. “The syrup ain’t real,” she informed me with an incongruously bright smile.

  “It’s not real syrup?” I said blankly.

  “It’s real syrup. It’s not real maple.” She was clearly dealing with an urban simpleton. “He’s too cheap to buy real.” She jerked her head toward some imaginary cheapskate. “He really ou
ght to buy the real stuff, don’tcha think?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “If it says maple on the menu, it should be maple. I always tell folks when they order. Just seems like the right thing to do. Tell ‘em up front. Anyway. You still want ‘em?”

  I pondered this. “I think so,” I said finally.

  She shook a chubby finger. “I warned you.”

  “And I do thank you for the warning.” I smiled brightly at her.

  I pulled out one of the fax reprints of Keith’s passport photo, placed it on the counter, and I asked her if he looked at all familiar. I did momentarily feel like a complete idiot as I did this.

  “Are you one of these private dicks on a case?” She grinned, steeply compounding my moment of acute embarrassment.

  I told her I wasn’t. I told her he was a friend who was missing.

  “I’m real sorry.” She stopped smiling. “I’ve got me a smart mouth.” She looked closely at the picture and shook her head. “I’ve gotta say he looks kinda shitty, doesn’t he?” Ginnie picked up a carafe and poured stewed black coffee into a cup as a large cat with red hair close to the color of hers traced a figure-eight pattern between and around her feet, which were encased in the white, sensible kind of shoes nurses often choose to wear.

  She was a woman in the netherworld between girlhood and middle age, with no ring on her wedding finger, no makeup on, and hair that was teased and tortured to an unnatural texture.

  “Yes he does,” I said, “he’s been living rough for a while. Traveling around. I think he might have passed through this way a while back.”

  She looked at the picture once again.

  “Can’t say he looks familiar, because he doesn’t. Wish I could help ya,” she said.

  “It would have been a couple of months ago,” I persevered. “When he was through here. Are you alone? The only waitress working here I mean?”

  “Yup.” She smiled at me wistfully. “Just little ol’ me. It’s a small place. Small town. Just locals living here. Off the tourist track since we’re a ways from water. Mostly old guys come into the diner.” She waved a hand to take in the six or so men sitting alone, at the counter, or in the booths that lined the window that faced the road. “Just after coffee and some talk and a place to cool off in during the dog days. A guy like that, like your friend, would surely have stood out. Not just cause he looks so gamey but ‘cause, well, to tell the truth, he’s really pretty good looking. Maybe you cleaned him up some. Wash that hair. Looks like a New York kind of actor guy. I’d have surely remembered him. Mind me askin’? Was he a good friend of yours? This guy?”