The River Burns (25 page)

Ryan teased that when Alex saw her she'd literally take his breath away, give him a heart attack. The boy either didn't understand how things worked as time trudged along or he was trying to buoy his spirits, but nonetheless he did appreciate the look of her.

Reserved expressions and hushed voices between the two women revealed the subject matter of their discussion—what everyone was talking about, a burned bridge. Alex O'Farrell took five steps to leave, then hesitated.

He didn't want to go just yet.

Although he knew that he should.

Whoo-hee.
A rare beauty in any town, but certainly in this one. Without realizing what he was doing he was staring as he did before, in a manner that even he might judge as inappropriate and inexcusable. But in one quick mental snapshot she both captured his interest and proved that he was not yet too old to welcome the phenomenon. Beguiled, he then seized on the mystery of what signified beauty. Somehow, when his senses were truly struck numb by a woman's presence, she was not someone he ever imagined. Anytime he conjured a certain style of beauty, and the woman of his synapses appeared on the street or on the screen, and even when she exquisitely fulfilled the dream, that sort of beauty was not as lovely as once perceived. Women who possessed the power to take his breath away or, as his son insinuated, give him a heart attack, were those who did not previously audition before his imagination. Surprise, then, was a big part of their look. The shock value of beauty, perhaps. As he continued to stare, Alex was also postulating that beauty was never about perfection.

He'd not bothered to think this through before, but was perfection with respect to beauty not a bore? Tiresome? Which is why a screen beauty at times was more enticing if she was muddied and scraped and wore a man's old shirt and jeans. Dolled up, forget it, that was trying too hard. This one was not dressed down, nor was she muddy, but she didn't try even a little nor did she have to, not with that skin. His chin flexed back as if deflecting a glancing blow.
Yes. Her skin.
The thought helped Alex grasp why he was not thinking
pretty
, or
cute
, although she certainly fit the bill to a T, rather
beauty
, and he was also thinking
rare.
As a film siren, some Hollywood dimwit might have altered the nose and enhanced the hair to de-emphasize her forehead, or committed the real horror, a boob job.

Luck was on his side, Alex decided, as the woman's client shook hands with her, shared a laugh, and departed just then. Oddly, the new woman in town knew to turn her head only slightly and tilt her chin just so, to stare right back at him.

Then she glanced at what he carried.

“If you've come here to share that pie, sir, you're in the right place.”

Chuckling, Alex took a few steps closer. Further progress was stymied by a rack of gaily coloured hand-woven straw baskets from Argentina. He didn't think he should say what he was thinking, but did so anyway. “I wonder if my son fell for you as quickly as I just did. As I recall, I believe so.”

At least she was taken by surprise also. She took a more analytical and anatomical survey of the fellow standing before her—she'd seen him once before, at the town meeting—and mouthed the name
Ryan
.

Silent as well, he nodded.

She lifted her hand over the baskets and they shook as he balanced the pie on the fingertips of his left.

“Tara,” she said.

“Alex.”

Then she crossed her arms and looked at him more closely.

“What?” he asked.

“That means,” she assayed, “that you're Denny O'Farrell's father, too.”

“The one guy everyone is talking about, yes.”

“The bridge burner. At least, that's how they're talking about him.”

“You know what they say about bad news. In my mind, the only news that travels faster is gossip.”

“Would you like to come in?” she asked him.

A puzzling question. “I am in,” he said finally.

She smiled. “To my part of the store. The side room.”

“Oh. I didn't realize. Sure.”

She went ahead while he backtracked and found the aisle that took him through the maze. Waiting for his arrival, she noticed his cane, merely slung over an elbow for the moment, and the laboured walk.

“Are you in much pain?” she asked.

“Only when it hurts,” he admitted.

“Mmm. Looks like you need to loosen up. I know exercises for that.”

“I garden,” Alex said.

“Probably the worst thing you can do.”

Twice he elicited a smile from her and each time she made him laugh in return. He detected a desire to keep doing so. “Can we eat pie here?”

“Only carefully. And that's no way to eat pie.”

“I have to tell you. It's day-old.”

“I know. Poor Mrs. McCracken. She's upset.”

Alex nodded, not requiring an explanation. Then he looked around. “Hey, you've changed things up.”

He didn't know why, but his expectations were overridden by a bizarre dawning compulsion, and he knew that he was going to buy one of her grandfather clocks. They did look quite splendid, lined up as dutiful sentries in sartorial spiffiness in a perfect row. He was tempted to salute. And then he did. That made her laugh out loud, so he did, too.

Then she said, quietly, “I wonder how Ryan's dealing with this. It can't be easy.”

He shrugged. “I haven't spoken to either of them yet.”

Alex saw that she found the admission curious.

“They're both working,” he explained. Having seen for himself that the bridge was completely gone, he thought he'd visit Val, find out how she was handling all this, suss out if she knew anything. But he saw no reason to share that thought with this other young woman.

Tara directed her gaze to the tall clocks. “So, what do you think? Do you wanna buy a watch?” she asked, laughing.

Alex said, “Sure. Maybe. I dunno.” He was spellbound. Not a good time to dicker.

■   ■   ■

The day was proving to
be mild, a break from the lengthy heat wave, which Jake Withers appreciated given that he was called into Skootch's abode. An airless cabin on a hot day, an A-frame without insulation. In the winter he kept the stove burning wood nonstop, while in the summer his guests broiled. Skootch didn't seem to mind. As skinny as a greyhound, he wore scant clothing. He perspired as anyone else did but heat never seemed to bother him. The windows of his A-frame were left wide open and yet only the bugs entered—Skootch believed that humankind should live at peace with Mother Nature's creatures, including the blackfly and the mosquito—while fresh air stayed outside. The last time he was inside the cabin Jake Withers believed that he might melt, then be poured into a jug. This time, he guessed that he could survive okay.

The smoke didn't help, though. Skootch toked up as Jake entered.

He wore war paint. That's what it looked like to Jake. One broad black stripe between his nipples, and a second line under his eyes that slipped over the bridge of his nose. At first, Jake uttered a small laugh, believing that that might be appropriate. When Skootch seemed to not share in the humour, he censored himself, and sat on the floor across from the other man. Smokes, one of tobacco laced with hashish, another the grass that Jake peddled now, lay between them.

He crossed his legs in front of him and sat on a blanket on the floor.

“I thought we might have a powwow,” Skootch said. “Talk things over.”

“Sure, Skootch. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong, Jake. Do you think I'd invite you into my house if something was wrong? If something was wrong I'd invite you into the woods. Tie you to a tree. Stuff a rock down your throat. Scrub your cock and balls with poison ivy. Then release you. Watch you scratch the itch.”

In alluding only to a potential threat, Skootch sharply heightened Jake's wariness and fear. “I just want to know if I did something wrong is all.”

“You mean those errors? Reduce them. Get lower to the ball. Bend your knees. You've let yourself get stiff. As for your hitting, I've seen some signs. Your swing is loosening up. Contact will come, then the hits.”

When Skootch passed the joint across to him, Jake accepted the tobacco and hash. He didn't do this stuff on his own, but he was polite, and rarely turned down these friendly gestures. He'd been raised to be polite, first and foremost. The tobacco scalded his tongue.

“Business-wise, your sales have been good, Jake. I have good reports on you. You're punctual. People have told me that. They like you. But I thought it was time that we chewed the fat a little. Y'know?”

“Sure, Skootch.” The compliments made him nervous.

His host took a long drag, then exhaled slowly. When he finally evacuated his lungs, Jake received the smoke in his face.

“I'm going to increase your territory. Did you know that?”

“No,” Jake said. “I didn't know that. Thanks.”

“Someday I'll reduce it. That's the life of a salesman. You do well, your territory is reduced. Forces you to take blood from a stone to make things happen. Get me?”

Jake thought about it. “You mean, since my territory is increasing, that's a bad thing?”

“You're a rookie. You're just getting started. So I start you off small in case you don't work out. You get to cause less damage that way. But you're doing fine, no damage done, so I'm increasing your territory for now. Then, when you're making too much money and getting too big for your britches, I'll make you work with less. See if you can make more with less. Test your mettle that way, do you see?”

“I guess so. Yeah.”

“Good,” Skootch said. “Good. I run this ship like IBM runs theirs. Did you know that? Here's the thing, kid. I need you to keep your car.”

“I'm keeping it, Skootch. It's running like a charm.”

Skootch nodded, smoking, and closed his eyes while he inhaled. “Keep it that way. Invest in maintenance, Jake. This is my primary message today. Invest in maintenance. You're doing okay, Jake my boy, but you're going to make more money than your eyeballs can count. I don't want you driving around town in some Porsche or Alfa Romeo, picking up chicks. You don't want to pick up those chicks. Do that and we're dead. You'll be dead, anyway, but I won't let you take me down with you. You want a car like that? Keep it in some foreign country. But here, invest in maintenance. Your car is your disguise. Your disguise is your eternal salvation.”

Jake nodded with some evident enthusiasm. “You don't have to worry about that. I know how to get around.”

“That's important, Jake. I'm not sure there's anything more important than knowing how to get around.”

Skootch opened up an aluminium case. Jake half expected him to take out something he would not like, such as a gun or a hypodermic for hard drugs. Hard drugs scared him. So did guns. But Skootch kept a variety of finger paints inside the case, and he twisted off the top of the orange into which he dipped the index and middle fingers of his right hand.

He traced twin tracks of orange across his brow.

“What are you doing?” Jake asked.

“What does it look like I'm doing?”

“I don't know,” Jake said. “Putting on paint?”

“War paint,” Skootch acknowledged.

“Yeah? We're at war now?”

“Yes, Jake,” Skootch said. “We're at war now. That's another reason I don't want you driving around in some BMW or Lexus. Because we're at war. The Old Orange Shitbox keeps you safe. No Audi will do that for you.”

Jake Withers waited awhile and then asked, “What war? Who with?”

“With the forces that are arrayed against the world, Jake. We're at war with our enemies. Who else? We are at war against the evil in our midst.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Parallel purple stripes went down each side of his face, from high on the temple to just under the jawline. A slash of pure white was drawn from Skootch's lower lip, down under his chin, and over his Adam's apple to the base of his neck.

“Lean in, Jake,” Skootch invited. “I'll paint you up.”

“Yeah?” Jake said, tentative still. “What for?”

“For battle. Jake, come on, if you're going to war, look the part.”

“I thought I'd make some deliveries today.”

“Forget it. The roads are too dangerous for you now, Jake. Somebody might mistake you for a logger. Or worse. A tree hugger. Which is what you are.”

Skootch painted the bridge of Jake's nose green then asked him to smile.

“Show us those pearly whites.”

Jake did so.

“Hold that pose.” Skootch fished out his cell phone from a scant pile of clothing on the floor and held it up to take Jake's picture. “There's plenty of girls here, Jake. I don't want you dating in town. I'm told you're not going with anybody from here.”

“Come on. That's not really your business.”

“Isn't it? Have you ever kissed a man, Jake? I mean, really kissed a man?”

“No.” He was uncomfortable with this turn. “I'm not going to either.”

“Good,” Skootch said, then took his picture, then examined the result. “Then go out with girls from around here, Jake, so we can keep our eye on you, you know? Unless you want to go back to selling pavement.”

Jake Withers was aware of the change forecast by this conversation. He considered his choices, what he should do. He accepted that the way things were going right now suited him, that even though he was not completely happy with the arrangement he could go along with Skootch. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. A query that indicated his compliance.

“Put on your war paint, Jake. Smear your face, your chest, your arms, your neck. I want to see what you look like in full battle regalia. Let me see my new young warrior. Then we shall study war, Jake. We shall devise tactics, our battle plan.”