Plain Heathen Mischief

by Martin Clark

Christy had been camped under the tree for a good while when a girl and her boyfriend appeared, startling her. She’d been thinking about the branches and Gates and how it might be cool to have a baby, especially if she was rich as shit and didn’t have to worry about some dumbass guy supporting her. Each time she’d find the rare patch of green leaves, she’d stare at them and wonder how long it would be before they fell, whether they’d at least be allowed to boss the sky for a day or two before the wind blew them into nothing . . . like what happened to River Phoenix and Kurt Cobain. The girl spoke to her, said hello, and her boyfriend mentioned what a pretty afternoon it was, and Christy was so surprised that she could barely speak. “Hi,” was all she said.

  The girl’s name was Amy—Christy had seen her on campus—and she was from Ohio, seemed pleasant enough but not too outgoing. She and the boy began strolling up the road toward the school, holding hands, taking their time, swinging their arms. Christy heard Amy ask him if he wanted to stay for dinner and study afterward, and he said yes, let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her waist. The scene made Christy suddenly sad, mixed despair with the pot and her weariness, and caused her to reflect on where she was and where she ought to be—a smart, gorgeous girl who knew a lot and had figured out next to nothing.

  Amy and her cute date were going to eat together and highlight pages with yellow markers and kiss and maybe have sex and just know they had life by the tail. They weren’t antsy and rushed, didn’t have to squirm and grasp and yearn, weren’t constantly on patrol for a stronger drink or a heftier buzz or a better party or enough money to conquer the world. The entire time she watched them wooing and nuzzling, she envied their simple contentment, wished she could somehow find satisfaction in picnics, Jane Austen novels, film festivals, cooking, good grades, the Sunday comics, sharing a chocolate dessert or watching it snow at night with the floodlights on. But it’s just fucking impossible to leave cocaine for caffeine without being bored to death, and she was where she was, and soon she’d be almost four million dollars improved, all the stress gone, and hand-holding, romance and changing seasons wouldn’t concern her, not when she was at a reggae festival in Montego Bay, high as a kite, fresh from the hotel spa.

  She stood and followed Amy up the drive, and as she walked she recalled being a child, seven or eight, and playing checkers with her Grandma Flippen, her mother’s mother, the elderly lady in a sweater and a knee-length cotton dress, the two of them laughing and pushing the wooden disks around the board, jumping each other’s men and getting crowned, making red and black kings that could move backward and forward and almost never got cornered. When the game was over, her grandmother would put away her game pieces in an old, plastic potato salad container with most of the writing worn off its lid, and she’d fix them a country-ham sandwich and a Pepsi, would cut the sandwich in two and press the bread flat with the side of her kitchen knife.

  Christy felt a tear leave the boundary of her eye. Only a solitary tear, and she wasn’t sad enough to want to cry, hadn’t known it was on the way or felt it building. She dabbed the wetness with her index finger, then held her fingertip in front of her face and stared at the dampness as if it were some odd, impossible mistake.

  Joel had heard about the Montana winters, had been warned about the frigid, harsh winds that would rampage through the Bitterroot and Sapphire Mountains and gut the valleys and vales. He experienced his first cold snap at the beginning of November when an icy front blanketed most of the state and delivered two days of snowfall, close to eleven inches, an unusual early arrival that didn’t augur well for the next several months. He wore double shirts, thermal gloves and his heaviest coat anytime he ventured outdoors, but the chill was unavoidable and very much different than the occasional freezes in Roanoke. The weather covered everything, made walking and starting cars and feeding the chickens and simply drawing breath a strained, bundled effort. The rivers changed color, acquiring grays and bleak blues, and the trees, even the evergreens, lost their vitality, seemed to bow their heads and capitulate to the brutal, stinging air.

  In the heart of the cold spell, Dixon was kind enough to give Joel a Thursday morning’s work at the Coachman, called him the day before and asked him to clean and sort one of the storage rooms and help prepare Christmas shipments. Joel got to the shop at eight and was finished by lunch, and Dixon invited him to eat barbecue and beans in his office. Dixon had labored over the meat for two days, soaking it in sauce and letting it stand overnight and slow-cooking it on a stove he’d installed in an unfinished garage off his office.

  When he sat down to eat, Joel had shucked his jacket, but still was wearing long johns and two shirts, couldn’t shiver and stomp the last traces of cold from his legs and feet. Dixon cleared a spot on his desk for their plates, and he kept a space heater plugged in while they ate. They reminisced about fishing and funny clients and the terrible trip with Karl and Lisa. Dixon assured Joel that Lynette Allen was a superior lady and a dandy lawyer and would kick Karl Dillen’s tooth-fairy ass, not to worry.

  When the conversation wandered to Christmas and religion, Joel invited Dixon to attend a holiday service with him, perhaps the Christmas Eve cantata at Missoula Baptist or a morning communion at Saint Francis Xavier’s. Now that the guide season was finished, Joel made the pilgrimage to town every Sunday, parting Baker’s hair and dressing him in a boy’s clip-on tie and hauling him along, holding his hand as they climbed the stairs at eleven o’clock while the bells rang and courteous people welcomed them. Baker always sat quietly until the kids were dismissed for the children’s program, drew airplanes and bulldozers on the church bulletin and showed them to Joel when he was done. They’d stop at Burger King on the drive home, and Joel would let the boy order whatever he wanted, reward him for being so mannerly, so smart. “I’ll be taking my nephew when I go, and who knows, maybe Sophie’ll surprise us,” he told Dixon.

  Dixon shook his head, chewed a mouthful of meat, swallowed, drank and said, “No thanks”—said it in a polite, respectful fashion, but used a tone that didn’t leave much room for compromise.

  “Why not?”

  “To each his own,” Dixon answered. “It’s just not for me.”

  “I think you’d enjoy it—especially at Christmas. Have you ever been to church?”

  “Yeah, sure. Who hasn’t?” He moved some stray beans into a pile with his spoon.

  “And you didn’t like the experience?”

  Dixon took a big bite of meat, then another. “Well, Joel, here’s my take on it, for what it’s worth. Churchgoin’ to me is a lot like blues music. Everybody always talks it up, says great things about it, and you know it’s supposed to boost your soul, but when you actually do it, when you go sit in a smoky club for two hours hearing some old brother with a bum leg and a pair of Ray-Bans play the same slow, self-indulgent, strung-out three notes and squeeze his eyes shut, you start thinking, man, this crap ain’t so hot. Truth is, you’d rather be down at the Holiday Inn lounge tossin’ back dollar shooters, pawing the strange women and dancing to disco—‘Brickhouse,’ ‘Word Up,’ something fun and rollicking.”

  Joel laughed. “I’ve never heard that comparison before. And I didn’t picture you as a disco man. Better not let it slip out; you need to keep your gruff, mountain-man mystique. I’ll pretend I never heard it, tell everyone you drink bourbon and dark beer and listen to old bluegrass records. There’ll be no mention of disco from me.”

  “I like the party that comes with it. And, hey, that was the music in my day.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Nothin’ against church,” Dixon continued. “But it’s one of those things—like museums and gyms, for instance—that’s probably good for you and earns you kudos from your friends but is only enjoyed after the fact, when it’s over and done and you can say you went through it.”

  “Well, keep it in mind. I’ll probably bother you again about it—I’d love to have the company.”

  “We’ll see,” Dixon said. “So you
like my marinade?”

  “It’s excellent. What do you put in it?”

  “I can give you the recipe if you want.” He began hunting through the papers scattered on his desk. “I’ve got it written down somewhere.” Then the old-fashioned, rotary dial phone rang, and Dixon answered it, interrupting his search. He soon looked concerned, focused on the call and quit shuffling the invoices and notes and messages and magazines. His eyes narrowed, and he mouthed the word “damn” after hearing something, was obviously listening to serious news. He looked at Joel and said, “He’s right here. I’ll put him on.” He stretched the receiver to Joel, told him it was his sister and she was upset, bawling because someone had broken into her house and robbed them and torn the place apart.

  Joel was incensed when he reached Sophie’s, speechless with anger, and the kicked-in door and reckless pilfering and turned-over furniture and gaping drawers barely hanging in their slots made him despise Sa’ad and Edmund even more, strengthened his resolve to punish them. Sophie was standing beside a uniformed policeman, and another man, dressed in a blazer and slacks, was on his knees examining the splintered door casing.

  “The TV, the VCR, the new microwave, my jewelry, Baker’s silver dollars—everything,” Sophie said to him. She spoke to him as soon as he appeared, talking to him from the kitchen. “They flat wiped us out. And look at this.” She waved her hand across the pillaged rooms. “Just look. What kind of animal would do something like this?”

  The man inspecting the doorway stood and introduced himself to Joel. “I’m Detective Holman, Bill Holman. Missoula Police.” One of his knees was wet from the slush and ice around the entrance. “This is Deputy Ron Graham.” He glanced in the other officer’s direction. “Sorry to meet you under these circumstances.”

  “Yeah. What a mess.” Joel had never been more ashamed in his life. His knees were weak and spongy, his spine was in flames and he felt sure his face was flushed, flooded with pounding red disgrace. Here it was, all his doing, his sister’s home wrecked and violated, as if she’d been tackled and raped, strangers throwing things from their proper places and emptying her bedroom dresser, running wild through her belongings. He put both hands over his face, tipped back his head and shut his eyes. He had no idea it would be so violent and bad, a simple, pretend burglary rigged by his partners. “Unbelievable.”

  Sophie left the officer and walked to where Joel was standing, had to step over a lamp and detour around the couch. The couch was on its back, flipped by the intruders, its dark canvas bottom dirty with lint and whorls of dust. She hugged him, mashing her face into his chest. “What else, Joel? What’s next, huh?” The words burrowed into the fabric of his coat, were muffled and muted.

  He patted her hair and stayed silent, didn’t open his mouth, didn’t lie or hedge or make his own fraud worse. This was a terrible blow, but she’d soon have thousands and thousands of dollars, and she’d be able to leave this bare-bones shack behind if she wanted, buy herself a much finer place to live, a two-story with a balcony and a river view. He hadn’t anticipated this kind of impact, hadn’t seen it coming, but he’d make her whole again, and an old TV and a battered door would seem like nothing. “I’m sorry. So sorry,” he said. “I’ll help you get over this and move on. Don’t worry.” He pushed her away, made her focus on him. “We’ll be okay.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do. I mean with Baker and all—what if they come back? It’s like I’ll never feel safe.”

  “We’ll try to keep an eye on things,” Holman offered. “Increase our presence out this way for a while. I know how you must feel. It’s real normal, especially for ladies.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “It’s rare for the same ones to return,” he added. “Very unusual.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes were swollen and she was wearing a matching skirt and sweater, her work clothes. She’d been called home after the postman noticed the door was ajar and looked inside.

  Joel’s shame wasn’t leaving—he continued to feel weak, hot and worthless, far distant from the Lord’s touch. He shifted positions, put his arm along Sophie’s shoulders, did his best to keep his face blank and his sister reassured. There was no need—none—for Sa’ad and Edmund or their hireling thugs to have been so remarkably malevolent. He bit his lip and shook his head, and the detective acknowledged his reaction, thought it perfectly correct for a man whose pretty sister’s house had been torn to shreds by thieves.

  “We’ve got some information that might be helpful,” Holman said. “This is the fifth one in a month. They hit the people who live about a mile from here, family by the name of Evans. You know them? They have a brick ranch with the fine-lookin’ pair of quarter horses out front.”

  “Yeah,” Sophie said. “They’re good neighbors.”

  “And we’ve got some things to work with. There’s a partial shoe print on the door, and tire tracks in your drive and the mailman saw a white truck with a camper shell right as he was arriving. That’s the same description we got from another robbery—three men in a white truck. We’ll have someone try to lift fingerprints, but so far we haven’t been too lucky there.” The officer was methodical, appeared intelligent and truly concerned about his investigation and Sophie’s loss.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Joel echoed.

  “As soon as you can, I need you both to do an inventory and tell us what’s missing. Any information about brands, serial numbers or distinctive markings is helpful to us. If you have photos or warranty cards, anything that can help us identify your items, let me know, okay?”

  “Okay,” Joel said.

  “Don’t rush. Take your time,” Holman cautioned them.

  “I understand,” Joel said.

  The other policeman was in the kitchen, and Joel happened to be watching when he raised from over the counter and called for Holman. “Bill, come here a second. Look at this.”

  Holman excused himself and walked the four or five strides to the small kitchen. Joel and Sophie followed behind him, straining to see what was so important, Joel’s hand in the center of her back, encouraging her.

  “Check this out,” the officer said. He pointed at the counter where Joel had smashed it and done haphazard repairs and never gotten around to a final fix. The replacement boards weren’t completely flush and hadn’t been planed, and the Formica covering was sheared and cut on both sides of the break, leaving exposed edges that didn’t meet. The counter was somewhere between light brown and weak orange, and there were three dark-red drops and a minuscule smear on one side of the Formica gap, three dots and a smudge that were blood, sure as they were standing there.

  “Looks like—” Holman began.

  “Yeah,” Deputy Graham interrupted.

  “Like blood,” Holman finished.

  “Yeah,” Graham said, excited.

  “Either of you get cut there?” Holman asked.

  “No,” Joel answered, and Sophie shook her head.

  “What was here, on the counter?” Holman asked.

  “The microwave,” Sophie said.

  Joel watched the detective’s eyes travel back to the outlet. “The bastard cut himself when he jerked it unplugged or was lifting it to carry away. His arm would’ve been directly over that sharp piece of the counter. Now we’re talking.” He smiled and pursed his lips. “These guys are amateurs—I’ve known it from day one. We’ll get ’em with this, yes indeed we will.”

  Joel stared at the red evidence and felt his face and neck blink again, imagined three scared slugs—he knew the type, had spent six months with them in jail—sitting across from Holman and selling everyone out, telling the cop how the robbery was a ruse for something much bigger, an insurance scam, and, yes, darn right, they wanted on the train, would be willing to cooperate with the state and testify against the masterminds. “Why wouldn’t they clean it before leaving?” Joel asked.

  “Sir, they’re petty crooks,”
Holman said. “Why do they do all the stupid things they do? Why do they get caught over and over? Because they’re dumb and lazy, mostly. Here, maybe the guy didn’t know he’d gotten scratched, or maybe they’re in a hurry, or possibly they’re dopers who don’t think clear, or maybe they aren’t too smart about DNA. I swear to you, we got a blood match on a burglar ’bout a year ago—clown cut himself on a store window—and he says, just as positive as can be, that we’re trying to trick him, that we can only match DNA from semen.” Holman laughed at the recollection. “You wouldn’t believe how stupid and, well, ignorant some of these people are.”

  Actually, I would, having seen it firsthand, Joel thought. He wiped his hand across his brow even though it wasn’t that hot in the room. “I see,” he said to the cops. Certainly though, Sa’ad—foxy, wary Sa’ad—wouldn’t have divulged anything to bunglers such as these, let them know the big picture and put everyone at risk. If the robbers got caught—and it seemed they would—the worst that could happen is they’d yammer about some Mr. X or mystery man named Raoul, and the cops would ignore them, assume they were trying to shift blame and save their own skins, simply spinning jailhouse nonsense.

  “You have insurance, ma’am?” Holman asked Sophie.

  “Pardon?” she said.

  “Homeowners’ insurance. I wondered if you had any on your house.”

  “Yeah, I do. I paid it about three months ago.”

  “They’ll reimburse you for a lot of this, the theft and property damage,” Holman said. “You need to call your agent and file a report. Make sure you list everything—you know how insurance companies can be.”

  “Thanks, I will,” she replied. Her mood didn’t seem to change, however; she remained dazed and glum, her mouth not all the way closed, her arms flaccid. “I think I’ve got a thousand-dollar deductible, something like that,” she added. “And it’s not the money, not really. It’s this—this terrible intrusion.” She surveyed the ugliness, began in the corner of the den and slowly viewed the room, stopping when she reached the couch. She went to it and gripped one of the short wooden legs with both hands. “Help me with this, Joel.”