A Far Gone Night (20 page)

In a moment, Mike was back, handing out frosted glasses of Heineken and a big mug of hot chocolate for Harmon, then we all moseyed over to the side table loaded with pigs in a blanket, chips and dip, and pimento cheese sandwiches on white bread cut into halves with the crusts removed. I went last and was pleased to see that everyone before me acted as if they had not eaten in a while. I followed suit. We all sat down, nibbled and sipped. Mike spoke.

“I want to welcome Thomas to our group,” he said, and everyone nodded. Then he said, “Let’s continue with our study of the Book of Acts, Chapter 28, written by Luke, the physician. The Kingdom of God is the theme of this book, and it is clear, which is good, and steps on our toes, which we can’t avoid if we’re honest with ourselves.”

“If the Word of God doesn’t step on our toes, something’s wrong,” Dr. Elmendorf said, “and I’m not even a podiatrist.”

From that point, the study went forward and then it was time to stop at the appointed time of 9 PM. I said nothing all night, trying to get the lay of the land and not make a fool of myself. After a prayer by Gunther, the meeting broke up with a few hugs that I avoided, some backslapping I accepted, and see you Sunday’s. I hung around at Mike’s request after everyone else left. I don’t know where Gabby was, but I could hear a television in a distant room.

“I’m glad you came, Thomas,” he said as we hung around the closed front door. The air was cold from all the men leaving into the night. “I hope you got something out of it. This is a good group.”

“I wasn’t too crazy about asking God to reveal to me the truth about myself,” I said.

Mike laughed. “Nobody likes that one. Anyway, glad you came. Hope to see you later.”

I thanked Mike and left, trudging out to my truck as others were driving away. He stood in the door and watched me go until I was in the cab and the engine was running, then we waved at each other and I drove off, glad I had been there, especially for the heavy hors d’oeuvres. And glad Mike hadn’t made a big deal out of my being there for the first time.

That was Wednesday. And Liv Olson was still not returning my calls. More papers to grade, I suppose, and they had a play they were putting on, which I understand she was directing. Thursday had me back again at the gym, but mostly staying home, watching basketball games and reading Hemingway for the first time in years.
A Farewell to Arms
, and the saddest closing line in literature.

On Friday, I had dinner at the
Heisler’s
house, the manse behind Christ the King church. It was a late dinner, 8:30, so the children could introduce themselves beforehand and say goodnight. I bought a big bouquet of mixed-color roses—eighteen of them, and a nice bottle of
Stuhlmuller
Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon 2004. Molly had told me the fare would be Swedish meatballs, so I guessed the wine was okay for the occasion.

It was cold, in the low 20s, when I left Gotcha snoozing on her favorite recliner and drove over to the
Heislers
. I parked in the four-car parking space behind the church, between the van I had seen over a year ago at the
Soderstrom
tragedy, and a Honda Accord with a Luther College bumper sticker. The porch light was on and many of the downstairs windows shone brightly, and I thought about the last time I had approached that front door. It had been with Ruth
VanderKellen
at my side, and we had kissed, and I had allowed myself to dream that maybe there would be a future for us together. But then she had left town for California, leaving a note for me with Lunatic Mooning, the note about the first snowfall, and her return to
Rockbluff
in the springtime.
To stay.

Hoping she was now rejected by that boyfriend, suffering from shingles, and thirty pounds overweight, I squared my shoulders and marched up to the front door. Before I could knock, the door opened to reveal Molly
Heisler
, aglow with health and happiness. I could hear Carl in the background thumping around with squealing children.

“Welcome to our home, Thomas,” she said. “We are so glad you could come over tonight.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” I said, extending the roses. Her face lit up.

“These are beautiful, Thomas! Thank you! I’ll put them in some water right away.”

“Amazing what they can do with silk flowers these days. They don’t need water,” I said.

Molly gave me a quizzical look, then sniffed the flowers, then looked at me and shook her head. “You had me going there, Thomas, but these are real and they smell great.”

Another squeal of delight emanated from within. Molly shook her head and said, “That Carl, he’s always charging up the children just before they go to bed instead of calming them down. Course, he then reads to them after tucking them in, and that helps them ease off to sleep. Please, come in out of the cold!”

“Here.” I handed her the bottle of wine, “I hope you like this.”

“Thank you, Thomas. You are so thoughtful.”

Molly led me into a formal living room littered with children’s books and plastic toys—one a music box of some sort and the others super-hero action figures. Carl came in with two children in tow.

“Thomas, glad you’re here!” he said. “I want these two to meet you. Go ahead, children.”

A blonde girl, maybe seven or eight, stepped forward, extending her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. O’Shea. I’m Dahlia. May I get you something to drink?”

“Nice to meet you, Dahlia, and that’s a gorgeous name. But no, I don’t think I’ll have anything right now, but thanks for asking.”

Dahlia grinned and looked up at her dad. “How was that, Dad?”

“Nicely done,” Carl said. Then he turned to his son, and nodded.

The boy, dark haired, lean like his dad, maybe four years old, turned to me. “I’m
pleathed
to meet you,
Mithter
O’Thea
. I’m David. Would you like to
wrethle
?”

“Spoken like a true Iowan. Maybe we can wrestle another time, David, but thanks for asking,” I said.

“Well done, children,” Carl said, “and now it’s to bed. Say goodnight!”

They did, and then Carl took one in each arm and carried them away upstairs. In the meantime, Molly had decanted the wine and poured three glasses, offering me one. And suddenly I was choking back a stinging feeling in my nose and a clutch in my throat, surprised, then angry at the sudden takeover that Molly noticed.

“Are you okay, Thomas?”

I nodded my head and sipped the wine. It was good. I felt better.

“What was it?” she asked, pausing, “Oh.
Family.”

I nodded again and took another sip and tried to think about Iowa’s chance in the Big Ten basketball season. The senior power forward was destined for first team All-American, but could he carry the team until the younger players coalesced into a seamless unit? I decided he could. I felt better then. Carl came into the room and announced that the children were tucked in and it was time to eat, which we did. In addition to the Swedish meatballs, there was curried fruit and mixed vegetables along with homemade bread. The wine went perfectly and I drank too much and then Carl opened another bottle—Kendall Jackson cabernet sauvignon. Mince pie completed the meal.

We moved to the study, where a fire was burning in the fireplace. Carl and Molly sat together in a love seat and I pulled up a leather upholstered chair across from them. Carl said, “I’m glad you could come over tonight. We’ve
been wanting
your company here for some time. Something always seemed to come up.”

“But you were able to come visit me at my place,” I said, “so that was good.” I had the sense that I was going to be ministered to, and I didn’t really want it, as much as I cared for Molly and Carl.

“Your house is beautiful,” Molly said. “And so was your family. I saw the pictures. Karen was beautiful, and so were Annie and Michelle.”

“Thank you. Forever young,” I said.

“I heard you were at Mike’s gathering of revolutionaries this week,” Carl said.

“Yes.”

“You know Gabby’s not Mike’s first wife,” Carl said.

“Really?
I didn’t know that.”

Molly smiled and stood. “May I get you guys some coffee? Thomas? Carl? I’m having some. No trouble.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Irish?”
Molly asked.

Carl and I both nodded. “I do have some Jameson’s,” she said, and headed for the kitchen.

“So Mike’s divorced?” I asked.

“No, his first wife, Ellyn, was a farm girl. She was helping out at harvest a few years back, there was an accident at a silo when they were pouring grain into it for storage. She was up at the top and slipped and fell but they couldn’t immediately stop the conveyer from continuing to fill. By the time they did stop all the machinery, they couldn’t get to her. She was buried alive. She suffocated. Mike was the one who dug the body out. He was grief-stricken. I,
we
, worried about him a good long time, prayed for him, talked and counseled him. You’d never know it now. God’s comforting.”

Molly came into the room carrying a tray with three cups of coffee on it. The aroma of strong coffee and Irish whiskey was welcome on a cold night in northeastern Iowa.

I took the coffee and so did Carl. Molly sat down, taking the last cup into both hands, cradling it. She said, “Mike met Gabby at church. Her husband was killed in Iraq, but she grew up here before she married him and they moved away, serving all over the place. When he was killed, she came home and then she and Mike found each other.”

The coffee was good, warming my belly in a couple of ways. I didn’t say anything at first, and neither did they. Then I spoke.

“So, when do you want me to ask Liv Olson to marry me?”
Might as well come to the point.

Carl looked surprised. Molly pulled back, paused, and grinned. “Well, since you asked, how ’bout tonight?”

“I’m having too good a time here to go get turned down.” I forced a smile.

“Thomas,” Molly said, “Liv and I are good friends.
Good
friends.” She gave me a look that told me maybe Liv had told her about our night together way back when. “She might turn you down, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“I got her shot, you know,” I said, “and since you’re such good friends you must know she thinks of me as a liar, and she’s afraid to be with me, and said there wasn’t much to build a relationship on. So there you go.”

“That was then, this is now,” Molly said with just a hint of an impish smile.

Our conversation fumbled a bit after that, and then I said I needed to get home or Gotcha would worry and thank you very much for dinner and your children are wonderful and I love you guys, I really do, and I’ll be fine.

When I got home, Gotcha was not worried. She was asleep. It was after ten, much past her bed time. And that was my week as November faded away and December bulled its way into my life, three evenings of fine food interspersed with workouts, avoiding Suzanne
Highsmith
, and trying to get Liv Olson to answer my calls on that blasted cell phone.

I was getting more than antsy by the time Saturday came and went, so my decision to take another trip north to the
Chalaka
Reservation was an easy one. And it was a trip I was going to make on my own.
Private.
No one would know. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of being back in the game again.

I
t was Sunday morning. I got up and showered and noticed that my bruises from the set-to at the
rez
were gone and my ear was healed. I pulled the butterfly patches from my injured eyebrow. It tilted a little, providing my face with an inquisitive look that I decided I liked. Do it yourself plastic surgery.

I ate cold pizza left over from the night before when I had taken a meat lovers’ out of the freezer and embellished its surface with loads of pepperoni slices and three kinds of shredded cheese. Not wanting to overdue the cholesterol stuff, I left off the extra bacon. I let Gotcha out and in, medicated and fed her, and dressed for church in my cleanest blue jeans and a heavy wool Irish fisherman’s sweater Karen had given me years and years ago. According to the thermometer outside my kitchen window, it was nineteen degrees.

Church was good. A solid sermon from Carl
Heisler
lifted my spirits a little after I realized my spirits were down, thanks to people at church who kept asking me, “Are you okay, Thomas?” which bothered me because I thought I looked pretty good. Maybe they were asking about my spiritual well-being.

The sermon was titled, “In Whom Do You Trust?” I realized I didn’t completely trust God, which made me feel guilty, so I vowed to myself that I would invite Him into my decision-making, but not just yet. The only three people I totally trusted were all dead, and had been dead, for almost two years. But God was not dead, so I took comfort in Carl’s sermon. I didn’t see Liv. She usually sits middle left with Harmon. I sit in the third row, center.
Fewer distractions.
After the service concluded and I shook hands and chatted briefly with Carl on my way out of the sanctuary, restating my thanks for Friday night dinner, I headed for Bloom’s Bistro since The Grain o’ Truth isn’t open on the
Lord’s day
.
Moon’s idea of appealing to spiritual diversity.

Bloom’s is cool. It’s a fine little bar and restaurant with a big deck hanging out over the Whitetail River. Since it was so cold outside, I didn’t expect to find the deck open, so I just edged into the establishment, slowed in front by a bunch of Methodists and pushed from behind by a crowd that looked like they’d be comfortable with Druids.

A perky, blonde, blue-eyed girl in a red ski sweater and charcoal slacks met me. It was Beth Gustafson, my favorite Bloom’s waitress.

“
Hiya
, Mr. O’Shea,” she said. “We’re pretty crowded. Do you mind sharing a table?”

“Yes, I do mind,” I said. I wanted to think about what Carl had said from the pulpit, not engage in small talk with people I didn’t know. Or be rude and ignore them.

“Well, then, I guess you’ll need to come back in a little bit,” Beth said.

I turned to go. Beth touched my shoulder. “Say, would you object to sitting with someone you do know at a table for two?”

“That depends. I know several people I wouldn’t want to eat with.”

Beth smiled. “I understand. But would being seated with Ms. Olson work out for you?”

I looked away from Beth and out over the crowd. Scrunched in the back at a table slightly larger than a
frisbee
was Olivia Olson. I decided that would work, and nodded in the affirmative to Beth, who smiled and began leading me to Liv’s table.

On the way, Penny
Altemier
reached out and took my hand. My eyes on Liv, I hadn’t noticed Penny. She was sitting with three older men I’d seen around the
Rockbluff
County Court House, mostly county employees. I didn’t recognize her out of uniform. I stopped, told Beth to go ahead, and said hello to
Altemier
since she hadn’t let go of my hand.

“You must be off today,” I said, glancing Liv’s way. Liv was studying the menu even though she had been in Bloom’s dozens of times in her life. She did not look up or see me.

“You look wonderful, Thomas!”
Altemier
said in a voice better suited to a cheer at a sporting event. Her hand let mine go, then brushed up against my hip, slid upward a few inches, and came to rest on the small of my back. There was a kind of electricity in her touch, and it was the kind of electricity that can light up more than a bug lamp on the porch.

“Thanks, Penny.
Same to you.”

“Hope to see you again,” she said, her voice now low and conspiratorial, almost a whisper.
A little husky, nearly breathless.
Minor league Marilyn Monroe imitation.
Yikes.
She pressed her fingertips gently into my lower back and let her hand drop, brushing my hip again. Her eyes were smiling and she was looking at me as if I were a 50% Off
The
Sale Price item.

I just nodded and produced a quick smile at her and the men she was sitting with,
then
turned toward Liv Olson’s table. She had looked my way, probably when Penny had offered up her high-decibel observation about my appearance.

I found my way to Liv, maneuvering around people coming and going, and tables in close proximity to each other. Bloom’s Bistro is popular year ’round, and it deserves the attention. The food is excellent, although sometimes slow to arrive, but worth the wait. And the overall ambiance is friendly, comfortable, and enjoyable. Somehow, Penny
Altemier
didn’t help promote that atmosphere.

“Mind if I join you, Liv?” I said as I arrived at her table.

“Don’t mind if you do,” she said, her face impassive. “Have a seat, Thomas.”

“Thank you.” I sat down. She was wearing a white blouse under a blue cardigan that underscored the beauty of her eyes and complexion. There were frilly things at her throat and sleeves. Her makeup was spare, I guess, because I didn’t notice it. There was none of the raccoon look so prevalent with women who think makeup reverses the aging process.
Just fresh and clean and wholesome.
I wanted to touch her.

“Have you checked your voice messages lately?” I asked. “I’ve been trying to reach you, but I know you’ve been busy with grading papers and directing the play.”

“I did, but I
have
been busy.
Much to do.”

I decided to change the subject. “Did you order yet?”

“No. I’m indecisive this morning.”

“You?
Indecisive?
Hard to believe.
What’s your indecision about?”

“Well, I can’t decide to order the Belgian waffles or take this butter knife and go over to that woman and see if I can generate enough force for the dull blade to penetrate her skin and sever a carotid artery.” She shrugged. “Belgian waffles sound good.”

“Okay then, good decision.”

Olivia gave me a long look, cocking her head to one side, scrutinizing my face.

“Your face looks better than the last time I saw you, but the eyebrow needs professional help. I could recommend my cosmetic surgeon. He does all my implants. He’s excellent.”

“You don’t have a cosmetic surgeon. You don’t need one. Besides, it would go against your fine character.”

“Thank you for that. You’re
right,
I do not have a cosmetic surgeon. But the jury’s still out on my character.”

“
This
jury isn’t, not that I would judge. I know your character to be beyond reproach.”

“Shoot, you’re just being kind to a lady who doesn’t have the strength of character to return phone messages. I know how much you hate cell phones, and I appreciate your interaction on my behalf with that vile tool. I really do.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got you face to face right now, and that’s so much better than a voice over the atmosphere.”

Beth showed up then and we ordered Belgian waffles and a Mug o’ Bloom’s each of coffee. A Mug o’ Bloom’s is coffee for sure, but in a 20-ounce pottery mug. It has enough caffeine to keep me functioning at a high level until spring. I ordered a side dish of sausage patties. Beth smiled and left.

“So, now that you’ve got me, what were you calling about?” Liv asked. She was looking at me with a neutral, but attentive, facial expression.

“I want to take you out to dinner. Whispering Birch if you want, or a little side trip to a place I used to visit in Iowa City. Or I could cook you dinner at Chez O’Shea.”

“Chez O’Shea has a nice ring to it. I’d like that, but I must decline. I am so ashamed of myself for what I said to you, I don’t think I could be in your home again, your family pictures, all that. I would be an intruder into your privacy.
Very uncomfortable.
For me, for sure.
Maybe for you.”

“Maybe we can get past that. Maybe you’d be very welcome in my privacy. That would be peachy.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” she said, and I knew she was going to lower the boom. Whenever a guy is in love with a woman and it’s not going to happen, she always precedes with the bomb by saying, “That’s very sweet of you.” Followed by, “But.”

Liv followed form. “But I think not.
Too much water under the bridge.
Oh! I didn’t mean a particular bridge. I mean, I wasn’t alluding to Moon’s niece. I just meant it as a figure of speech. Sorry.”

“And a cliché,” I said. “You can do better than that, English person,” I said, stinging a little from her put down. “But I would think that my working with Moon would make it
more
likely that you could carve some time out of your exhausting schedule to let me take you to dinner some night, maybe when the play is concluded, and allow yourself to talk my ear off. After all, he’s your friend and I’m helping him.”

Beth Gustafson showed up with our orders. The fragrance of the coffee preceded her and started my juices percolating. The waffles were huge. I smothered mine in butter, syrup, and jelly. No point in offending any of the food groups by leaving them out.

Liv took a careful portion of her Belgian waffle and ate it, then a big sip from her coffee. I attacked my side order right away, assuaging my prickliness with warm sausage. It isn’t good served cold, unlike revenge. I drank coffee. It was good.

“Yes, you are helping him, and it looks like you helped him acquire a broken arm.”

“That’s right. I said, ‘Moon, let’s go up to the
rez
and get you a broken arm. How’s that sound, big guy?’ Liv, that’s exactly how it went down, and Moon was all for it. Said he’d never had a broken arm and was pleased that I was going to help him get one.”

Liv shook her head slowly and a faint smile crossed her lips. “You and Moon are pretty formidable. I can’t imagine someone whipping him. He won’t elaborate on the adventure. I asked him for the details. He just admitted the broken arm.”

There was so much background chatter and dishes banging and silverware scraping that I had to lean forward to continue the conversation. When I leaned forward, I got a good whiff of the sausage’s aroma and it settled my nerves.
A little.

“A gigantic guy with a baseball bat smacked Moon. Shaved head, spooky tats on his skull, a desire for combat,” I said. “There just might be a rematch at some point.”

“What happened to the guy? Did he lay out Moon and go have a beer?”

“Actually, I was able to show him that he made a poor decision when he and his pals decided to rough us up. You know Moon’s car was damaged. Windshield broken out, key marks.”

“Those guys had a death wish, didn’t they? How many were there?” Liv asked, looking up, chewing. She smiled and took another slug from her coffee mug. I finished off my two sausage patties, wishing I’d had the foresight to request a double order. I guess Liv’s fresh beauty had distracted me. It usually does.

“Just six,” I said.

“Just six, huh?
I see,” she murmured, nodding her head in fake approval. I know sarcasm when I see it. “Did you ever think that you might have gotten
killed
, Thomas!”