by Jim Dodge
Tommy was shaking his head. ‘Never met the woman myself, but I’ve heard a lot about her. She lived over in Clear Lake for about twenty years, married to Duster Nogardam. Duster was this big Swede dentist, but what he was famous for was skeet shooting. He was on the ’34 Olympic team, came in fifth or ninth or something like that. Anyway, sometime after that – don’t remember exactly – he went out pheasant hunting over on the Lindstrom place and just vanished. Car parked right beside the road. Never seen or heard from since. She finally inherited his estate. She got a little weird, I gather – wandered around at night, stuff like that. She bought the Julhal place because she said she was too old for city life and needed some fresh air. That’s what she told Lottie Williams, anyway. I heard it from my mom. You know how small towns are – live in each other’s pockets. Old lady Nogardam don’t work the place, of course. Leases it to the Potts brothers is what I heard.’
‘Wait a minute. Let’s take that back. Her husband just vanished? Poof? No trace?’ For some reason I wasn’t liking that at all.
I liked it three times less when Tommy said, ‘Same thing happened to her first two husbands, too. That’s the strange thing.’
‘Three husbands and they all disappeared?’
‘Yup.’
‘Who says? I mean, are we talking rumor, fact, or what?’
‘My old man’s a deputy, right? He read the police reports.’
‘How’d she explain it? They must’ve grilled the ever-loving shit out of her – three husbands vanishing is damn near impossible. Hell, two’s impossible.’
‘According to Dad, she said she couldn’t explain it. She said explaining it was their job.’
‘And they couldn’t, right?’
‘Like Dad said, “Coincidence isn’t evidence.”’
‘I assume her husbands all had hefty estates. Or some heavy insurance.’
‘Nope,’ Tommy shook his head, ‘that’s the kicker. Duster had a few bucks, and the second one – I think he had a ranch in Arizona – was barely making ends meet, but the first one was hocked to his armpits. He was a linoleum distributor in Chicago. They’d only been married a couple of years. She and Duster had been together for twenty or thereabouts; ten with the guy in Arizona, I think.’
‘And she had alibis and all that?’
‘Airtight, ironclad, not a crack. For all of them, not just Duster. Or that’s what my dad said.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I said, flapping my arms for warmth.
‘Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger.’
‘What do you think? She hire it out, they just get called to their Maker, take a walk, spaceships come down and spirit them away, what?’
‘Spaceships,’ Tommy said.
I couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not, and suddenly I didn’t care. I was freezing, and in a rotten mood to start with. Spaceships, sure – made as much fucking sense as anything. I reached for my wallet. ‘How much do I owe you?’
He glanced at the pump. ‘Six eighty-five ought to get it.’
‘You carry white gas?’
‘Gallon cans. Nothing in bulk.’
‘Gallon’s perfect. I’ve got a little single-burner Coleman in the trunk to brew up coffee – put a little antifreeze in my system.’
‘Might try a jacket along with it,’ Tommy observed.
‘No shit.’ I chuckled, handing him a twenty. ‘I gave mine to some poor bastard I picked up hitching last night. All he had on was an undershirt.’
‘You meet some nuts, all right,’ Tommy said as he took the bill. He headed for the office, calling over his shoulder, ‘I’ll bring you the map and the white gas with your change. Might be a few minutes with the map.’
‘Hey, no problem,’ I called after him. ‘And you keep the change. Good information’s more valuable than gas. And that map: I would really appreciate it if you make it as precise as possible … you know, “X marks the spot.”’
Tommy stopped to protest the tip but I waved him on. ‘The magazine pays for it. Legit expense. Hell, I’d give you a hundred if they’d hold still for it.’
I waited in the Caddy, letting it idle with the heater on full blast. I made a mental note to buy a heavy jacket before I left town, chastising myself for giving mine to Lewis Kerr when I remembered the foilwrapped cube of LSD that was still in the pocket. This added another dimension of possibilities to last night’s transactions. I hoped the acid somehow managed to get into his bloodstream – not that the world was ready for a hallucinating Lewis Kerr, though the notion pleased me immensely.
I wasn’t happy about Granny Nogardam and her missing husbands, so I gave this a few minutes of serious worry, cursing my luck. Why couldn’t it ever be simple? Why wasn’t the landowner some crop-failed farmer who’d be overjoyed to let me do any damn fool thing I wanted for twenty bucks and a six-pack, and throw in a ride back to town? But what the hell, maybe she would, too. No way to know till I asked. And I’d be doing that soon enough. I felt a tiny, voluptuous tremor of anticipation surge through me then, a little premonitory quiver of impending completion, and it thrilled me. I closed my eyes to savor the feeling and saw the Caddy parked in the middle of an ivory desolation, gleaming white-on-white. No sound. No movement. Then a flat, muffled WHUMP! as the white gas ignited and then a blinding roar as the gas tank exploded. Yes, yes, yes. Signed with love; sealed with a kiss. The gift delivered. I was dreaming on the verge of occurrence. I felt its inevitability in my bones. It was meant to happen. Had to be. No question.
When Tommy came hustling across the slab a few minutes later with the map and white gas, I was ready to make the last move, set the last piece in place. I was wasted but drawing strength from the promise of imminent release, about to lay that burden down.
The map, as I expected, was deft and precise. Tommy went over it with me quickly, and unnecessarily since the route was so simple – maybe ten miles of straight roads with only three turns to remember. In the field in back of the house marked NOGARDAM was a large X, carefully circled. I thanked Tommy for his help and insisted he keep the change, my sincerity not the least compromised by the fact I’d solicited his help under false pretenses.
Heading out of town, I remembered I should buy a warm jacket and generally get my shit together … have things organized in case Granny Nogardam proved intractable and I was forced to hit and run. I was all set to let it rip, but as Joshua and Double-Gone had cautioned me, that wasn’t sufficient justification for the wholesale violation of common sense.
As if in reward for my display of mature judgment, I immediately spotted a JC Penney’s and was about to hang a left when to my right I saw a hand-lettered sign propped against a sawhorse next to a Phillips station:
CAR WASH $1
BENEFIT METHODIST CHOIR
I hung the right on impulse, figuring the least I could do was send the Caddy to its sacrifice clean.
The Methodist Choir Car Wash crew seemed to be composed entirely of ruddy-cheeked, blue-eyed, vestal eighteen-year-old girls, all of whom, unfortunately, were bundled against the cold. I wondered who sang bass. They were swabbing away on a ’63 Chrysler, with an old Jimmy pick-up next in line. They were singing ‘What a Fortress Is My Lord’ as they worked. The young lady who bounced over to greet me said it would be fifteen or twenty minutes if I didn’t mind waiting. I told her that would be fine as long as they’d keep an eye on the car and hold my place while I trotted across the road.
I was back in fifteen sporting a new red-and-green plaid wool jacket and carrying a bag with insulated longjohns and a pair of pink mohair earmuffs that almost matched my hat. The girls were still rinsing pig shit off the Jimmy, so I used the Phillips men’s room to slip into my long-johns. By the time I was properly dressed for the weather, the choir was ready to baptise the Caddy. Before I pulled it up I took my duffle bag from the trunk, using their witness to curb any temptation to hit the cooler for crank.
While they scrubbed off three thousand miles of road grime and sang ‘Rock of Ages,�
� I sat in the Caddy getting my gear together and cleaning up beer cans and donut wrappers off the floor. I divided my possessions into three categories: immediate getaway essentials, basically the clothes on my back and the balance of my funds, which looked considerably depleted; the second category was walkaway, namely my duffle bag and everything I could fit into it; the third category was breezeaway, and included the first two plus everything else I felt like taking, notably Joshua’s sound system and the record collection. I figured the cooler was dispensable, but I’d take the speed. I deserved it.
I finished arranging my gear at about the same time that the Methodist Choir was wringing out their chamois. I powered down the window to pay and learned that the price included vacuuming the inside, and for another 50¢ they’d do the interior glass. Sounded like a deal to me, so I got out and wandered over to a phone booth while four of them, Windex squirting and vacuum humming, swarmed inside.
Just for fun I decided to give Scumball a jingle and tell him the deal was about to go down: time to relax. I dialed the last number he’d given me. On the third ring a recording informed me the number was no longer in service.
The girls were still working so, hoping to hear a friendly voice, I tried John Season’s number. Nobody home. I hoped he wasn’t out drinking, then recalled the remark about a physician first healing himself.
I thought about calling Gladys Nogardam, but decided against it. Let us both be surprised.
The Caddy looked so good I tipped the gospel ladies a five-spot, much to their wowed delight. They wanted to ask me about the car and California and the strange record player in the back seat, but I told them I was running late for a religious duty of my own and departed with a gallant tip of my hat.
Going slow and easy, I rolled out to the crossroads noted on Tommy’s map and took the left. Thinking it would be an appropriate touch, I put some music on the box, first the Bopper with ‘Chantilly Lace,’ then Ritchie Valens’s ‘Donna.’ I took a right on Elbert Road, and two miles later a left. Feeling serious, confident, ceremonially formal, I put on Buddy Holly’s ‘Not Fade Away,’ drumming my fingers on the steering wheel rim as I checked the mailboxes against the map: Altman, Potts, Peligro, and there it was – Nogardam.
A white farmhouse with dark green trim, freshly painted, it was set back from the road and fronted a large fenced field of corn stubble. Next to the house was a garage or some sort of storage building, but no car or other sign of occupancy. I turned down the gravelled drive just as Buddy belted out the last line, ‘Love that’s love not fade away.’ I clicked it off on the last note and shut down the Caddy. Wop: doo-wop: doo-wop-bop. On the beat, right on time; there, ready, and arrived. I took a deep breath and stepped out to ask Mrs Nogardam’s permission – not that I was going to need it, just that it would make things easier. As I walked toward the enclosed porch I found myself repeating her name to myself like a charm: Nogardam; No-gard-am; No-guard-em. I certainly hoped so.
She caught me badly off guard. The porch was damn near dark and I’d already given the heavy screendoor frame two strong, confident raps before I realized the front door was open behind the screen and she was already standing there. ‘Oh,’ I said in a burst of wit, ‘I didn’t see you.’
‘Obviously.’ Her voice was raspy but plenty forceful. In the interior shadows of the darkened house, further obscured by the screen, I could barely make her out. There was enough light to see she was hardly a withered crone – in fact, though indeed stooped with age, she was just a bit shorter than me, which must’ve put her over six feet in her prime. She was wearing a dark grey dress of some coarse material, her shoulders draped in a black shawl. Her hair, pulled severely back, was the silver color of leached ashes. Her face was deeply wrinkled, and the lines drew inward toward her eyes, eyes the color of dark beer held up to the light, a gold at once clear and obscure, eyes that were watching me unblinking, waiting.
‘Mrs Nogardam?’ I inquired tentatively, trying to recover my equilibrium.
‘Yes.’
I tipped my hat, hoping to make it look boyishly charming.
‘That’s a ridiculous hat,’ she declared, her voice like a file hitting a nail.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said benignly, buying time while frantically considering an angle of approach. That she wasn’t going to invite me in for a glass of warm milk and a plate of cookies was plain, nor would she likely yield to stuttering good intentions and scuff-toed boyish charm. Her unflinching gaze made up my mind. I touched my hat brim again, a gesture I hoped looked absently wounded, and said, ‘Sure it’s ridiculous, but that’s altogether appropriate to the rather strange journey that brings me to your door. I call it “strange,” but it has also become urgent and compelling, important enough that I would call it “essential,” at least to me, and a journey that’s impossible to complete without your kind permission, Mrs Nogardam.’
‘Whistles and flutes,’ she said.
‘No ma’am,’ I assured her, ‘even worse: I’m going to tell you the truth.’
That got her interest. She cocked her head slightly and folded her arms across her bosom. Encouraged by her attention, I laid it on her, the whole truth and nothing but, the condensed version, about ten minutes straight as she listened without comment, shift of weight, change of expression, or any indication of judgment. Told her how I came to have the car; quoted Harriet’s letter; explained Eddie, Kacy, Big Red, John, Scumball; the Big Bopper, Buddy Holly, and Ritchie Valens, and their music; mentioned Joshua, Double-Gone, Donna, and the rest. I told her as directly and forcefully as I could and, considering the duress of necessity, did an amazing job, damn near eloquent. I finished by telling her exactly what I wanted to do – to let it all roar upwards in an offering to the ghosts, the living spirits, the enduring possibilities of friendship, communion, and love. I concluded with a flourish: ‘It is all grandly romantic, yes; ridiculous, of course; surely melodramatic; indubitably flawed; rightfully suspect – but it is as real to me as hunger and thirst, as crucial as food and water. I’ve told you my truth, such as it is. I’ve done everything I have the wit and spirit to do. This is the end of my journey. Now it’s up to you, Mrs Nogardam. Please permit me to complete it.’
She uncrossed her arms. ‘You’re a fool,’ she said flatly.
‘Yes ma’am, I believe I’ve conceded that point.’
‘I’m ninety-seven years old.’
I didn’t see the relevance of that, but murmured politely, ‘People in town said you were over a hundred.’
‘People in town talk too much for people who have little to say. In that they’re like you, Mr Gastin.’
‘Be that as it may, Mrs Nogardam,’ I said, trying to keep a nasty edge from my tone, ‘what do you say?’
‘I already said it: you’re a fool. And one of the few blessings of my age is that I don’t have to suffer fools – either gladly or at all.’
I felt like tearing down the screendoor and strangling the old witch, but instead took a deep, shuddering lungful of air. ‘Then don’t. Just tell me yes or no.’
‘That’s why you’re a fool,’ she snapped. ‘You want to be told. You think you’ve earned the right simply because you have an idea that you’ve allowed to bloat into a need. Because you’re paralyzed with confusion. Because you’ve driven a few thousand miles on drugs and good intentions and a fool’s hope. Phooeey. Does believing you’re in love make you capable of love? Are you a priest simply because you’re willing to perform the sacrifice? What rights have you earned in these matters? Mr Gastin, there’s no permission I can give you; only folly I can prevent. If you want to make this grand offering of yours, this homage you’ve concocted as some secret proof of your worthiness, this testament to a faith you so obviously suspect, don’t saddle me with the responsibility of judgment. It isn’t a question of my yes or no.’
‘You mean it’s up to me?’ I didn’t follow at all. She was full of judgments, it seemed to me.
‘Of course it’s up to you, since you won’t ac
cept anything other than certainty. Very well, then: if you can go out in that field and find exactly where that plane crashed, you’ll have earned the right to deliver your gift, as you call it; and you’ll not only have my permission to set it ablaze or any other fool thing you choose, but I’ll gladly come out and dance around the fire with you, and pay to have the remains hauled away. But if you can’t discover the precise point of impact, you must give me your word that you’ll go on your way without bothering me further.’
‘With due respect, Mrs Nogardam, I’ve come a long way, I’m very tired, and I’m not in the mood for proofs of my worthiness, or yours.’
‘Then leave.’
‘The fact that it’s your property by purchase doesn’t grant you the privileges of the heart. People own a lot of things that don’t belong to them.’
In the dim light I saw her bony fingers flutter at her throat. ‘Well, dear me. I must say, Mr Gastin, that that’s pretty high-falutin’ from someone whose property is literally theft, whose gift is stolen. But you are right, and I do agree. In fact, I have walked out in that field and felt exactly where those young men died. Felt it, do you understand? I am able or allowed to do so. And that, not ownership, is my claim to privilege. If you can do the same, you’ll have as much right in the matter as I do. But any shenanigans or tomfoolery, and I’ll stop you.’
‘You will?’ I wasn’t challenging her, merely curious about the means.
‘I’ll certainly try. And if I can’t, there’s neighbors or the sheriff.’
I softened my tone and played the ace she’d dealt me: ‘I told you the truth because I want to do this without deception on my part or objection on yours. I didn’t have to tell you the car was stolen; I could’ve said it was mine, or a friend’s, or thousands of other lies. But I want this to be right. That’s why it’s a point of honor with me to tell you I already know where the plane crashed.’ I took Tommy’s map from my jacket pocket and unfolded it, spreading it flat against the screen for her to look at. ‘There it is.’
