Walleye Junction Page 7

  “What’s going on in that pretty little red head of yours?”

  She lowered her voice. “I was just wondering when dinner was going to be ready.”

  “That’s entirely up to you.”

  “In that case,” she said, locking her expression in neutral. “There’s something important we need to discuss.”

  He hesitated. “Is this about the case or is this about us?”

  “I’m afraid it’s about us.”

  He held up his glass of wine. “Should I pour something stronger? If I’m going to get dumped I want to be drinking something manly like whiskey.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the whiskey drinker in this relationship.”

  “Okay,” he said, pulling away. “A beer then.”

  She held on. “Don’t go. This was just getting interesting.”

  She stood up on tiptoe and they kissed again.

  He smiled. “Are we about to have breakup sex?”

  “We’d have to break up in order for that to happen.”

  “In that case, Macy Greeley, will you break up with me?”

  She poked him in the ribs. “You haven’t even let me tell you my news.”

  “I was trying to avoid that. You’re kind of scary when you’re serious.”

  Macy nodded. “Very scary.”

  “Should I sit down for this?”

  She pressed her palms against his chest and held them there. “I have a feeling you’d prefer to take it lying down.”

  “You should know that I’m seconds away from throwing you over my shoulder and carting you off to my bedroom caveman style.”

  She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him closer. “You have to be gentle. I’m still a little bruised.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. So what’s this big secret?”

  She stood on her tiptoes so she could whisper in his ear.

  “You know that lingerie you saw online,” she said.

  He gazed up at the ceiling like he was giving it some thought. “I tend to see a lot of lingerie online,” he said. “You’ll have to remind me.”

  She pulled up her sweatshirt a few inches to reveal the black camisole she was wearing underneath.

  “I may have come empty-handed,” she said, sliding back into his arms. “But I’m wearing very nice underwear.”

  5

  Emma and Francine ate supper at the kitchen table, reheating a casserole a neighbor had left earlier in the day. Above the clatter of cutlery, they talked around their grief, not quite ready to claim it as their own. A radio played gospel, and the occasional car bathed the front of the house with fractured light before disappearing with a soulful whoosh. In the hall, the old clock marked time, and as the hour grew later the walls pressed in on Emma. Her mood shifted along with the boundaries that separated her from Walleye Junction. She’d walked away, but now the town was closing in on her, making it seem like she’d never left. With Francine in her shadow, she drifted around the house like a restless spirit, laying on hands, trying to find some connection to the past that didn’t hurt like hell.

  Standing by her bedroom window staring out into the darkness, Emma couldn’t help but think that she’d come full circle. All these years later and she had more questions than ever. The familiar ache of loneliness sat alongside her grief. She couldn’t see a way past it.

  She made up her bed with the sheets her mother had left on the chest of drawers. The picture of her and Nathan was once again facing the world. In a bid to keep the peace with Francine she left it where it was. By habit she reached for her laptop, but then changed her mind. That world could wait and for that matter so could her boss.

  She sifted through the clothing in her suitcase, dropping stacks of neatly folded shirts and trousers into empty dresser drawers. She hung up the black dress she’d brought for the funeral. It was still encased in the plastic sleeve from when she’d had it dry-cleaned in Chicago two and a half years ago. It was made from wool. The last funeral she’d attended had taken place in the snow. If she was still grieving for a man she’d only known for a year, there was no hope of ever getting over the loss of her father. She made her way downstairs, taking care to avoid the steps that had always squeaked.

  Earlier Emma had awoken from her afternoon nap to the sound of a ringing telephone. It was so shrill and old-fashioned that it had taken a few seconds for her to realize she was no longer dreaming. She’d staggered onto the first-floor landing to answer it. It felt odd to handle a phone that was still attached by a cord. She was pretty sure it was the same one her parents had owned when she was in high school.

  “Hello,” she’d said, using the script she’d learned as a child. “This is Emma Long. May I ask who is calling please?”

  Emma had waited, but there’d been no response.

  “Hello, is anyone there?”

  A girl had laughed.

  “Hello?”

  More giggling. “What do you call a lesbian with fat…”

  Emma had hung up before the girl could finish speaking. For a long time she’d stood on the landing feeling like someone had punched her in the gut.

  It was cooler downstairs than it had been in her bedroom. Emma turned on some lights and made her way into the kitchen. Her father’s old coat was on a hook near the back door. She slipped it on. She hadn’t expected it to smell so familiar. For a few seconds she had a strange sense that her father was standing right behind her, but other than her reflection in the windows, Emma was alone. There wasn’t one single visible light outside. The darkness had weight to it. The silence was unnerving. She glanced over at the door leading onto the back porch. She knew it was locked but checked anyway.

  Her father had used the sunroom as an office for as long as Emma could remember. Built along the western side of the house, it baked in the summer and was unbearably cold in the winter, but her father had always prided himself on his ability to transcend the elements. Kerosene heater humming by his side and snow falling heavily inches away, he’d sit bundled up at a desk that looked out over the side yard.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Emma sifted through the files he’d gathered for his radio program on the growing number of militia groups in Montana and in the United States as a whole. He’d scribbled in the margins and highlighted sections of newspaper articles that interested him. There didn’t appear to be any notations that indicated what he’d been working on more recently, which was odd given how excited he’d been when they last spoke. He’d been convinced that it was the story that would finally bring his radio show national attention. She’d told him to be careful what he wished for. He’d told her to relax.

  It’s my job to worry, not yours, he’d said.

  Emma went through the books on the shelf, scanning the pages for hidden scraps of paper and photos. One section was filled with books on how to write a novel. Pages were bent back or marked with bits of colored tape. Her father had always fancied himself a spy novelist. Emma had lost track of how many of his first chapters she’d read. She ignored the stacked boxes of unfinished manuscripts and tried the desk drawers and filing cabinets. After that she was on her hands and knees crawling on the floor, searching beneath the furniture and behind it. She didn’t find what she was looking for. Her father’s private journal wasn’t where he once kept it, and he hadn’t hidden it in any of the other places she remembered from when she was a child. She sat back in the desk chair and swiveled it full circle several times. Emma was twelve the first time she’d come across the journal in one of her father’s desk drawers. She’d been hoping to find some spare change for the ice-cream van. Instead she found a thick, leather-bound book containing all of Walleye’s dirty little secrets.

  The journal had notes on everyone from the high school principal to the head librarian to the police chief. Family trees had been carefully drawn with dates of births and deaths included. He’d taken down details and recorded the intimate secrets of almost everyone he knew or met in passing. Emma had found a page o
n her middle school principal. Ms. Ashford had once posed naked for Playboy and was having an affair with a married man who taught history at the high school. The man who headed the chamber of commerce had been meeting the mayor’s wife for trysts at a motel outside of Kalispell for years. In the margins of another page her father had written—possible that the mayor’s children are not his own. Emma couldn’t help herself. Every time she’d had a chance she’d snuck into her father’s office for another look. She’d been reading about a woman named Sue who grew cannabis in her back garden when her father arrived home earlier than expected. As far as she could remember it was the only time he’d ever yelled at her.

  Fifteen years passed before Emma saw the journal again. She and her father had been having lunch at the café in the Marina District in San Francisco when he’d set it down on the table between them.

  Emma, I shouldn’t have yelled at you for reading this.

  Dad, I was twelve and I was in the wrong. Anyway, I’d rather have an explanation. Why do you spy on people? It’s not normal.

  It was the first time she’d ever remembered hearing her father stutter.

  It’s … it’s a compulsion I have. Have … have always had. He’d laid his hand flat on the journal’s cover. The more I know, the safer I feel.

  Don’t you think you’re taking the idea that knowledge is power a step too far?

  Don’t be like that.

  Don’t be like what? Emma had asked.

  I’m trying to make you understand something quite fundamental about me and you’re dismissing it out of hand.

  So what if you’re a little paranoid. You’re fine.

  His eyes had welled up. Sweetheart, I’m not just a little paranoid. I’m worried I’ve lost all sense of proportion. I used to be able to shut it off for periods of time, but not anymore.

  Have you thought of going to speak to someone?

  I wouldn’t be able to trust anyone. He’d hesitated. That’s why I’ve come to you.

  She’d tapped the journal’s cover with her finger.

  You should destroy this thing. She’d gestured to the southern tower of the Golden Gate Bridge. It was emerging out of the dense fog like a rampart. We can do it today. We can throw it off the Golden Gate Bridge.

  He’d looked embarrassed when he spoke again. Emma, I can’t do that. It makes me feel safe.

  She’d grown increasingly wary as she watched him clutch the journal tightly to his chest. Emma wasn’t used to seeing her father like this. He was her one constant in the world—the one person who tied her to where she came from. She’d tried to meet his eyes, but he kept looking away.

  Dad, it isn’t making you feel safe anymore. I can tell you’re anxious just looking at you. Emma had tried a different tack. A lot of people you care about would get hurt if it ever fell into the wrong hands. You should get rid of it for their sakes.

  He’d shaken his head hard. That’s … that’s not going to … to happen.

  Are you sure? I found it when I was twelve and I wasn’t even trying.

  A week after her father had returned home to Walleye Junction Emma received a text.

  Emma, I know you’re worried so I wanted to put your mind at ease. I’ve found a safe place for the journal. No one will ever find it. Dad x

  * * *

  A shallow, glass-fronted cabinet hung on one wall of her father’s office. Her father had called it his curio for crows. The wooden recesses held everything from buttons to bits of twisted metal to coins. He’d started feeding the neighborhood crows when he moved to Walleye. In return they left him gifts at the feeding table and in the birdbath. At some point they started following him wherever he went. He’d found their presence reassuring, but her mother had thought otherwise.

  I swear they’re waiting for me to drop dead so they can pick me to pieces.

  Her father had laughed. Imagine the gift they’ll bring if you do.

  Emma opened the cabinet’s glass doors and poked among the bits of twisted metal, glass, and plastic. When she was a child she believed they were lost treasure. All Emma saw now was junk. Some of the objects were dated with Magic Marker, but others were left to tell their own story. One of the compartments contained an assortment of buttons and another had nails. Emma sifted through a selection of keys. She recognized a locker key from her high school. The red plastic handle had been gnawed on. One of the keys looked brand new. She held it up to the light. There was some writing on the green tag, but she couldn’t make it out.

  At the sound of a car pulling up outside Emma returned the items to the cabinet and shut the glass doors. She went to the front window and moved the curtains aside a fraction so she could see outside. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. A string of black crows perched like musical notes on the power lines that ran along the road. A shadow moved across the lawn, disappearing briefly beneath the low splay of tree branches. In the dim light she couldn’t make out who it was. There was a quiet knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Emma. It’s me, Nathan. I know you’re up. I saw you in the window.”

  She kept her voice low. “This isn’t a good time.”

  “It can’t wait. We need to talk.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Please, Emma, it’s important.”

  She unlatched and unlocked the door. She could smell beer on Nathan’s breath and he was a little unsteady on his feet. His smile was at half tilt. She couldn’t help but think they’d both been here before.

  He reached for her. “Emma, I can’t believe you’re really here.”

  Emma stayed behind the half open screen door. “Please keep your voice down. My mother is sleeping.”

  He smiled. “Just like high school.”

  She frowned. “Exactly like high school.”

  “Hey,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets and looking sheepish. “I’m not here for anything. I just want to talk. There were things that were said and done. Stuff I’m sure both of us would like to take back.” He shifted his weight. “It’s been on my mind a lot lately.”

  “Nathan, this isn’t really a good time.”

  He held up his hands. “I’m not leaving this porch, Emma. I’ll stay here all night if I have to.”

  Emma stared at him for a few seconds. Where there were once sharp angles there were now soft curves. Where there was once an air of entitlement there was now a look of resignation. She stepped back and opened the door for him. It had been twelve years since they were a couple. If he wanted to talk that was fine, but she would not let him bully her. She was stronger now.

  Emma led him into the kitchen. Beyond the back windows acres of cherry blossoms glowed under a pale moon. She’d not been in the garden since she arrived.

  “Let’s go out back,” she said.

  They sat on a cushioned bench that faced north. On a clear day the Whitefish Range dominated the view. To the east the Flathead River, still heavy with snowmelt, rumbled through the valley like a locomotive. Emma felt the pockets of her father’s coat and pulled out the key she’d found in her father’s office.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “Just something I found in my father’s office. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Nah, I’m good.” He stared out toward the orchard.

  “Admiring your handiwork?” she asked.

  He nodded. “The lawyer handling the family’s affairs says I can move into Caleb’s place since it’s vacant.”

  Beyond the orchard, Caleb Winfrey’s farmhouse was a dark silhouette. The distance had diminished with time. It felt uncomfortably close. Emma tried not to picture its unlit rooms.

  “How do you feel about that?” asked Emma.

  “It’s a nice house, but it’s got too many ghosts. Lucy and her mother were hard enough work when they were alive. Can’t imagine keeping company with them now.”

  “Surely, you don’t believe in ghosts.”

  He lifted his chin a fraction.
“No, but I believe in memories and there’s no escaping them when I’m in that place.”

  Fearing he was right, Emma averted her gaze, setting her eyes on the Flathead River instead. The moonlit water passed in and out of shadow. Emma really wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened in Caleb Winfrey’s house.

  “I can’t get over my room,” she said. “It’s like time stood still. My mom kept everything.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her in. “How you holding up?”

  Emma tried to shrug him off, but his arm didn’t budge. She chose her words carefully.

  “Things are difficult with my mom. I get the sense that she’d rather not have me here.”

  He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Francine is in shock. She’ll come around if you give her some time.”

  “I know this sounds weird to say out loud, but I don’t feel I’ve earned the right to grieve.”

  Nathan twisted around to look at her. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

  “My relationship with my father was a weekly phone call and a yearly pilgrimage to meet him in some soulless hotel.” The dull ache in her chest made speaking difficult. “If I didn’t make more effort when he was alive, what right do I have to miss him now?”

  “Em,” he said, pressing his lips to the top of her hair. “You haven’t changed a bit. You still overthink everything. You have every right to grieve. Philip was your connection to this place, to everything that makes you who you are today.”

  The coarse fabric of Nathan’s shirt chafed against her cheek. She slid out from under his embrace and sat up, making a point of stretching out her back.

  “I’m so stiff from the drive.”

  He kneaded her shoulders hard enough to make her want to cry out.

  “You have a chance to make things right with your mom,” he said. “You were close once.”

  “She really resented my leaving Walleye.”

  “Can you blame her?”

  He’d raised his voice and she matched his tone note for note.

  “I just wish she understood why I had to go. My dad did.”

  “I hated you for a long time,” said Nathan. “The way you left things … it wasn’t right.”