Читать книгу Flood Moon - Chuck Radda - Страница 7

There was still the question of finding a place to stay, and Walter—though he had agreed to dine with me—spent most of his time shuffling back and forth to the kitchen. Maintaining a dialogue was difficult, and to make matters worse, the wind would occasionally rise and rattle a window or two, diverting the conversation again.

"Dry as cinder all month," he said, "Season's changing I guess. Hope you brought warmer clothes."

"I'm traveling light. Figured to buy what I needed."

"Uh huh. Well, that's a plan I guess."

Another gust drew our attention.

"Wish I hadn't hung that sign," he said. "Probably find it in Wyoming tomorrow. Where are you staying?"

"I was going to ask about that. The motel," I said, with extravagant confidence, hoping to deflect another sympathetic response like Brenda's. I must have been successful: Walter merely nodded. And he kept nodding—one of those that's what you think nods.

"It seemed dark over there before," I said, more to fill in his silence than to convey any information.

"Usually is. Mrs. O'Leary doesn't waste a lot of lights. More of a candle person."

"Is she related to the Chicago Mrs. O'Leary? The one with the lantern and the cow? I think she was a candle person too until she burned down the city."

"First off it was a lantern, and second it never happened. More important, if you'd like a room there, you probably don't want to remind her of that connection," he said. "It's been played."

"But the candles…"

"Played."

"Does she have a first name?"

"Mrs."

"No, seriously…"

"Mrs. O'Leary. She likes it that way."

"How well do you know her?"

"Pretty well."

"And what do you call her?"

"I call her Mrs. O'Leary, same as everybody else."

"Is there a Mr. O'Leary?"

"Was once; ain't no more."

"Dead?"

"Not as far as I know, but I'm not nosy."

"Divorced?"

"You a renter or a biographer?"

The smile that accompanied that jab didn't entirely mask a bit of pique. I backed off.

"She sounds pretty independent," I said.

"We're all pretty independent. Look at you, traipsing through a strange town, totally unprepared for the elements and without a place to stay. Isn't that independence?"

"I was headed for California."

"So you avoided the cliché—good for you. Brenda warned you I'll bet. Mrs. O'Leary is pretty particular about who she rents to."

"So it's more of a rooming house?"

"No, it's a motel. She just chooses her guests, same way I could have refused you service when you came in here tonight. I'm a small business owner, so is she."

"But there are laws," I said, "discrimination laws."

He examined me with a clinical gaze. "And what minority do you represent, wet tourists without shoes?"

"Maybe, yes, in a strange town without a place to stay."

Walter rubbed his chin. "I'm not sure if that's a registered minority. A lawyer could probably give you more information, but you couldn't find one of those until tomorrow, and that wouldn't solve your current problem."

"So I can't get a room there?"

"I'll tell you what," he said, as he noisily bused some dishes from the table, "bring up the cow thing I'd say there's a real good chance you won't. Of course, if I was to go with you, she might reconsider."

"So you'd be my character reference?"

"You seem like a decent enough fella, just a little confused about your travel plans."

He sat down again, smiled and swished his wine.

"I figure this way." he said. "Coming to a strange town without a place to stay makes you an optimist and there aren't many of them around—not at your age. For that reason alone I'd vouch for you. Besides, you may need a character witness when she smells that liquor on your breath."

"Which you gave me."

He shook his head gravely. "You ain't gonna fool her."

"I don't want to fool her. Is she some kind of prohibitionist?"

He said no, but it didn't matter. The image of Mrs. O'Leary was crystallizing with excruciating detail: a character out of Southern fiction perhaps—some quirky, withered, creaky old recluse from a Faulkner gothic by way of Poe or Flannery O'Connor, a throwback safely sequestered in a bygone era. American fiction was filled with them—tee-totaling spinsters unwilling and ultimately unable to adjust to the modern world, living an interior life while making only small and begrudging concessions to the current century. She had probably murdered her husband, or secretly given birth to an illegitimate child. Probably both—on the same day. And of course the husband's body was stored in the larder while the child—now probably college-age—was imprisoned inside a secret compartment adjacent to a hidden room behind a disappearing staircase. Not only did I know Mrs. O'Leary; I'd discussed her in my classroom. People like that had to exist; otherwise, authors wouldn't write about them.

Even so, I didn't want Walter accompanying me to the Widow O'Leary's. Nothing shouts failure more than having struck out on my own, then requiring assistance just to rent a room. (Of course I wasn't sure if she was in fact a widow, but the sound had a nifty nineteenth century literature feel.)

"I sort of need to make my own way."

"One of them there independence things. Yeah, I get it. Hey, you made it this far already. Another couple of feet should be easy."

"I'll give it a shot."

He cleared off the table. "Come back when she says no."

"You mean if."

"I don't often confuse those two words," he said with a grin. "But hey, she doesn't turn in much before 11:00. Dark as it was there, you still have time."

He picked up my empty wine glass and his mug.

"Let me give you a hand with those," I said.

Walter shook his head. "Res-taur-ant, remember? I clear the table: you pay for the meal."

"Jesus," I said. I was genuinely embarrassed. "What do I owe you?"

"You got a ten we'll call it square. Tip and shoes included."

"I've got a twenty if you have change."

"Well let's see," and he opened his wallet, "if I take all the money I made from all my other customers tonight and put it all together...."

I stopped him from shuffling through the empty compartments. I had a better idea.

"What if I give you a twenty and I'll just borrow against it, use it like a meal ticket. There doesn't seem to be anyplace else to eat around here."

"That's one hell of a testimonial," Walter said, smiling. "How about you eat here one more time and I'll take the twenty. If you do survive the night, you'll need breakfast. Then by the time the bus comes back…hell, you'll burn through forty bucks in no time."

"Then take it now. What's the difference?"

"The difference is it's my restaurant and I can choose to collect my money any way I want. Besides, if you haven't prepaid, it's easier to refuse you service the next time you come sloshing in here wearing wet shoes."

I laughed a little too loudly—it was probably the wine. "The motel owner won't put me up and the restaurant owner won't feed me. Is this the way things go in Sage? Just a little bizarre?"

"Yeah, I guess, about as bizarre as someone dressed for summer stepping off a bus in the middle of the night and standing out in the snow with running shoes that end up weighing about ten pounds each. And I believe I already mentioned the ‘no place to stay' part. I gotta tell you, Cal, a prisoner making an impulsive escape has a better plan than that. Is that what you did? Escape from prison?"

"It wasn't really the middle of the night, and it's not snowing."

"I don't hear you denying the prison. State or federal?"

"Never been arrested."

"Then you're running from something. Jilted girlfriend? Angry husband? Homeland Security? You said you have an ex. Does she know it or does she have some gumshoe out looking for you?"

"Gumshoe?"

"You grasp my meaning."

"None of those."

"Wow," he said with a broad grin, "if that's true I think we found your minority. The man with nothing to hide. Looks like you'll be able to sue for that room after all."

The triumphant smirk annoyed me—and so did the angry husband reference. I wasn't running from one—I was one, almost. But that fact had less to do with Walter Trucks than it did with Natalie. To Walter's credit, he seemed to know he was getting under my skin and that I'd probably had enough. After all, he had won the oratory segment of the evening's competition and had acquitted himself well enough in food preparation. There was little left to prove.

"Look," he said, sounding more conciliatory, "are we all right with the meal plan?"

"It's fine, Mr. Trucks."

"Mr. Trucks, huh? I guess I pissed you off."

I didn't say anything.

"I was just having a little fun with you. You don't look like a convict. And call me Walter. She's Mrs. O'Leary but I'm Walter. There ain't that many people in this town: if you're going to stay here, you may as well learn some names."

"I didn't say I was going to stay."

"Okay, I guess I assumed it. Not many people actually stop here on the way to somewhere else."

"Why not?"

"'Cause there are always easier ways to get somewhere else. Anyway, you can't go over to see her wearing those wet running shoes. She won't let you in. She's nowhere near as tolerant as I am."

He stood, walked back to the "slipper room," and emerged with a pair of brown penny loafers, the kind I last wore in college when some girl I was lusting after told me she liked them. Of course when I finally figured out she was never going to go out with me, first thing I did was throw them away. Second thing was to pick them out of the wastebasket in case she ever called. Now, a mere three decades later, I would have another pair to meet another somewhat older "girl" who was also not going to give me what I wanted. That circle of life crap may be true after all.

He gestured toward my duffel bag. "Got any dark socks in there? White looks ugly, plus yours are wet."

I told him I did. Navy, I think, or black. Half the time I can't tell the difference.

"Good, these shoes are size 10, fits most normal feet."

"I'm a ten and a half."

He looked down. "Like I said. If you like 'em, pay me later. I got more."

"I suppose there's a story behind this pair of shoes?"

"There's a story behind everything, Cal. Right now the story is they're drier than your shoes and more suitable than those slippers. Now get over there before she turns in for the night."

I thanked him, slipped on the shoes—they were snug but wearable—and walked toward the door.

He stopped me when I got there. "And listen, don't push her, understand? No is no."

For some reason that final admonition really did piss me off. "I know what words mean. I used to teach them."

"I got that part, just when a lady says no, she means it."

"Mr. Trucks…Walter," I said slowly, drawing out his name the way I would an unruly or impolite student I was going to shame into contrition, or at least try, "I am not some kind of sexual predator come west to spread an east coast malignancy. You know that, right?"

"All I mean," he said, "is that…she's had a bad time…"

"That's what Brenda said. I'm not going to do anything to make her bad time worse."

"You don't know that."

"I know myself—I don't go around screwing up people's lives."

"Most people don't, not on purpose. Around here we're all a little protective of her."

"Is that why you wanted to go over there with me?"

"No."

"That wasn't very convincing. Listen, I'm not running from anyone and I'm not going to hurt some old woman living alone."

"She's not an old woman," he said, the words barely audible, but I had pretty much tuned him out. I slipped on the jacket and opened the front door. I thought I heard his voice as I went out—maybe he had something more substantial for me to wear—but I wasn't waiting. I didn't slam anything or throw a tantrum—two tactics I had perfected with Natalie—I just left.

Outside where the temperature had dropped noticeably, I felt some remorse. I could easily have told my whole sad and miserable story to Walter Trucks so that he could rest easier sharing his town with the likes of me. I understand—and I understood then—that we're all so anxious most of the time that we view any stranger as a threat. We'd even elected a president who more or less promised to protect us from strangers. Even so, I didn't like being treated like a teenager in a convenience store. Most teenagers don't care much for it either. I know—I used to teach them.

And though I am fully aware of the concept of a gift horse, my feet hurt. Years ago my father would buy shoes and have them "broken in," often just in time to bag them for some clothing drive or other. The shoe break-in period—something I'd remanded to the dark ages, had somehow been resurrected by Walter Trucks' loafer cache. And how the hell did these shoes turn up in Sage? Did some truck break down in the mountains, then limp into town where the citizens quietly and impassively killed and, of course, ate the driver, stole his merchandise, then nonchalantly rolled the vehicle into some permanent snowfield where it would lie buried for eons? Made sense. Walter's take in the operation must have been the shoes and slippers. Someone else probably kept the sport coats and slacks; another, skirts and dresses or maybe underwear and socks. I wondered who had the gloves and outerwear...if I could only find the cannibal with the outerwear.

The chilly rain had become a raw, icy drizzle that gave the town an artificial but not unappealing gloss. I remember saying to myself that perhaps the Sage Department of Tourism had polished everything for me, then laughed quietly at my own joke and decided to be careful whom I shared it with. In Sage or anywhere else, natives are allowed to have a sense of humor about their towns; interlopers aren't. And with my borrowed penny loafers and lost demeanor, I was deeply entrenched in that latter group—a fact that Mrs. O'Leary would probably have little trouble discerning.