Читать книгу The House of Frozen Dreams - Seré Prince Halverson - Страница 23

The Spit Tune was one of the oldest buildings on the Spit. It had survived the fire in 1918 and the Good Friday earthquake of 1964. Peanut shells and sawdust covered the floor. Signed dollar bills from every corner of the world hung from the ceiling and walls, and when Kache was a high school kid, he figured there was enough money there to fund their first album. Now he knew just how naïve that had been. First of all, there wasn’t nearly that much money, even twenty years later. And secondly, Rex, who’d owned the place forever, was fond of saying he’d shoot anyone who even tried to take one dollar down. “I won’t hurt you real bad,” he’d say. “Maybe just take off a finger or two to remind you to follow the rules.”

Rex, himself, wasn’t one to follow many rules. Kache and Marion, Chris, Dan, and Mike were all well underage when they started playing at the bar. Sometimes Rex even let them drink a few beers if they promised not to tell.

But Rex wasn’t around. Kache didn’t recognize the bartender, a young bearded guy who told him Rex was vacationing in Phoenix. Kache sat down anyway and nursed his coffee.

“Can I get you something stronger?”

“Not yet. Mind if I change the channel?”

The bartender handed him the remote. “A friend of Rex’s can do anything he wants.” Kache found the DIY network. His favorite show was about to start: it was the father and son show called The House that Jack and Jack Jr. Built. The hosts wore their tool belts low on their hips just like Kache’s father and Denny once had, sharing a similar comradeship, and when the hosts patiently began showing Kache How to Build a Fire Pit, he felt the smallest hint of a burning in the pit between his heart and his stomach.

The hosts acted like they believed in Kache, even the father, Jack Sr. From the screen, they spoke with reassuring confidence, as if Kachemak Winkel could, in fact, do it himself; he could do any goddamn thing, if he ever decided he wanted to. He could prove his father wrong again and again. He wanted his father to be wrong. That his father had been dead since 1985 didn’t matter. Kache had never wanted him to be dead, just dead wrong.

It was crazy, he knew, to desperately need approval and understanding from a dead man. But he did.

“Pussy Hollywood boys think they can tell us Alaskans how to build shit ourselves? I’d like to see them build a fox trap or skin a bear, am I right my friend?”

A large, strong-looking man sat a few stools down. Kache hadn’t even heard the guy come in. “You sound like my father,” Kache said. “And my brother, for that matter.”

“Is that right? There’s a couple of fine men I’d like to meet.” He smiled warmly, eyes teasing.

“Can’t. They’re dead.”

“Sorry to hear that. My papa too. And my mama.”

Kache nodded. “Yep. Same.”

“How?” The man motioned for the bartender to get Kache a beer.

“Plane crash.”

“That is harsh.”

“And yours?”

“Bear.”

“As in a bear attack? That’s harsh.” Kache took a swig of the beer. “Were you there?”

The man said he was, but that he hadn’t been hurt. “No scars you can see. You know what I mean, my friend.” Kache did know what he meant, even if he didn’t think quite think of him as his ‘friend’ just yet—he did already feel an odd kinship with him, knowing what they shared. The man had a Russian accent but was clean-shaven and sitting at a bar drinking a beer. Clearly not an Old Believer. Kache had grown up with a lot of Russians, and he wondered if they knew any of the same people. But when Kache asked him, he replied that he’d just moved here from the north slope after another failed marriage, lived in an old hunter’s cabin. “Only place in town I go to is here for booze and music. The rest I do myself. Not pretend, like bozos.” He motioned his beer toward the TV. “Don’t need anybody. Tired of thinking marriage might change me. It won’t. Can’t. What about you? You with beautiful woman?”

That required a complicated explanation so Kache just shook his head and turned his attention to the television, but soon his mind looped back on Janie.

The other night after she’d left to hang out with friends, Kache had noticed a light glowing from the guestroom and went to investigate. Janie had left her computer on. Janie never left her computer on. She worked for the electric company and always not only turned off, but unplugged every appliance, light, and electronic gadget they owned. She’d been spending a lot of time on the computer, and Kache sometimes wondered if she’d found someone to love on the Internet. He understood why she might.

He should just turn the thing off. But the fact that he was even curious at all gave him a rare surge of energy, so he clicked the mouse and the screen filled with tan and cream and that teal color Janie always liked.

A banner across the top said, Happenings from our Happy Home—Welcome to My Blog.

His mom had kept journals with the commitment of keeping a religious commandment, but why anyone wanted to display a personal diary on the Internet confounded him. Below the banner, a living room basked in natural light flowing through huge windows flanked with curtains, which resembled the ones his mother had made of burlap. Now they were in style? She would have gotten a kick out of that.

Hello Bloggers!

This weekend, Mr. Happenings has big plans to build a used-brick patio for the Luau we’re having in a few weeks. (Can you say pig roast? Leis? Even Poi?) I have no idea where he gets his energy. It’s not like his job isn’t grueling enough!

Was Janie having an affair with a married man? Mr. Happenings?

But he insists he can Do-it-Himself, so who am I to argue?

Anyhoo, we’re off to a dinner party tonight with our dear friends.

It had to be an affair. Janie was in love with this woman’s husband. Why else would she read this? This was exactly the kind of perkiness she made fun of.

Hope y’all have happy happenings this weekend. Be sure to check in on Monday for photos of our new patio project. Knowing Mr. Happenings, it will be completely finished. (And I’ll be giving him one of my Swedish massages!)

Toodleloo,

Janie

Janie? Janie Who? He had never heard Janie once say toodleloo, or anyhoo, for that matter, not to mention the fact none of this had anything to do with their life.

Along the right side of the screen, a cartoon caricature with Janie’s dark long hair and brown eyes grinned at him.

Click here to read About Me:

Hi, I’m Janie. I’m an Alternative Energy Specialist.

Well, he supposed that was one way to say she worked in Collections for the Electric Company. She had studied modern dance and wanted to be a dancer just as he had wanted to be a musician; they shared a haunting sense of failure. Though they each bore it quietly, it was always there, as constant as the indented couch.

I’m married to Mr. Happenings, an accomplished musician and CFO who is my Renaissance man. Seriously. What can’t he do? We have two darling kids, who I call The Pumpkin and The Petunia, and, honestly? Most of the happenings at our home really are happy! We work hard and we play hard. Check back regularly to see our do-it-yourself projects, recipes, parenting tips, decorating, crafts, and hints on how to keep your marriage and family positively happy!

He needed to stop reading, to turn it off if he could find—

“Kache. What the—?” Janie stood in the doorway, clasping her high heels in each hand.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” he told her, swiping the cursor toward the X, still trying to shut it down.

“Oh, it’s some work thing. I came back to turn it—Here, let me …”

“Janie.” He stood and reached out, took her shoe and held her hand, so tiny inside his mammoth one. “I’m sorry. But what is this? Some kind of alternate personality?”

Her face flushed and the pink splotch made its appearance, spreading down her neck. He felt bad, wished he had turned off the computer before she discovered what he’d discovered. “No, it’s not what you think, I’m no—I was just playing around.”

“Who’s Mr. Happenings? Is he supposed to be me? Or I guess the anti-me? My evil twin. Or I’d be the evil twin in this scenario, I guess.”

“No, no. It’s silly. I’m so embarrassed. It started out, I was … bored, you know?”

“Jesus. You had to make up an entire life? It’s that bad?”

She looked toward her toes, as if they might have an answer. “We could change that, Kache, if you’d try.”

Her shoulders slumped and a few tears hit her pearl polished toenails. He pulled her to him in a hug, Janie so short without her heels, and him so tall he had to practically fold himself in half to hold her. “I will. I’ll try harder.”

Her muffled voice, breathy against his arm, said, “You always say that but nothing changes. It’s such a lazy-ass cliché.”

He pulled back and looked at her. “Wait. You really give Swedish massages?” She didn’t smile. She didn’t even respond. He sighed. “I am a lazy ass.”

“You didn’t get all those promotions by being a lazy ass.”

“I got fired.”

“Laid off. Bought out. Restructuring. It’s different. You ran that place.”

“Hardly. I got lucky is all, but the gig’s up. No, Janie. When it comes to getting things done, I’m as competent as a clam. Hence, Mr. Happenings. My dad would love the guy.”

She stepped back. With her small tight fist, she punched him once firmly, squarely in his chest. “Your father has been dead twenty years. They all have been. Anniversaries are hard, I get that. But this has been going on forever. Kache, you didn’t die.”

She grabbed her shoe from him, pulled her heels back on. Balancing on one dancer’s leg then the other, she kept her eyes locked on his while he stood, hands in his pockets, the slight sensation of her punch already fading. Her bottom lip trembled.

Her words came loud and fast. “No. You know what? Forget it. We’re done. I hate that I wrote that creepy blog. Jesus, I need an actual life. Get the hell out and don’t come back.” She turned and slammed the door so loud the floor quaked. Her final shout came from the other side: “And WAKE THE FUCK UP!”

“You hear anything I say, my friend? Taking nap after one beer? You need me to drive you home?” Kache wasn’t sure what he’d told the man. Had he been speaking out loud? He hoped not. But the man was smiling at him again. Something about him reminded Kache of Denny. That warm familiarity. The ability to chat with anyone. Kache was so tired after staying up all night with the squatter woman, he wouldn’t mind having someone drive him home. But he needed to get over to the Old Folks’ and fill in Snag, see Lettie. He thanked the man for the beer and said he hoped to see him around.

The man called after him, “Next time I see you, your life will be better. You find beautiful woman! Not like me, you live happily ever after!”