The Moose Jaw (40 page)

I was well and deep asleep when the phone rang.  The bedside clock said it was almost midnight.  I groaned and padded up the stairs to the kitchen.  It was still ringing when I got there, so I answered it.

“Hello,” I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

There was a slight delay, common in Alaska, since virtually all long distance telephone calls are transmitted via satellite. 

“Fergus!  Is that you darling?”  It was Sylvia.  The last person on earth I wanted to talk to.  The last I had heard, she was somewhere in Holland.  I wondered what time it was there.  I did some mental calculation and decided it was about ten o’clock in the morning. 

“Hello, Sylvia.  How are you?”

“Oh, Fergus!”  Some things never changed; she still began most of her sentences with Oh, Fergus!  “How am I?  Good God, dear – HOW ARE YOU is more the question, isn’t it?  I got an email from your uncle saying you’d been mauled by a bear!  Tell me that it’s not true!”

“O.K.,” I told her, yawning, “It’s not true.”

“Liar!  I know it’s true!  How badly were you hurt?  You haven’t lost any limbs I hope.  Please tell me it didn’t scratch your face.  I always loved your face.  Of course, facial scars can give a man a certain rough charm.  Look at all those fencers from that awful university in Heidelberg.  Some of them...”

I hated to disappoint her.  “Sylvia, take a breath.  He didn’t scratch my face.  I came out relatively unscathed; three scratches on my shoulder and one cracked rib.”

“My God, Fergus!
  How could you have been so foolish as to get that close to a bear?”

What could I say?  “Just wasn’t thinking, I guess.  How are things in Holland?  How’s our dear friend, Gaspard?” I asked.  To myself, I thought, ‘Sneaky little prick.’

There was another hesitation on the line.  Then, “Yes, well, things are fine here.  Gaspard and I have stopped seeing one another.  The relationship seemed to have lost its naughtiness after you left.  Ruined everything.  I’m moving to Brussels in two weeks.  I have a friend down there.  And Brussels is so much more – cultured – than Holland, don’t you think?”

“Why not go all the way?  Move to Paris – the Left Bank?”

“Oh, Fergus, don’t be gauche.”  She tittered a little at her double entendre.

Before she could dwell on her cleverness, I said, “Is your new boyfriend French?”

“Oh Fergus!  You’re being intentionally gauche.  Actually, it isn’t a BOY-friend.  I’m exploring another facet of my sexuality.”

When I realized she was serious, I said, “For Christ’s sake, Sylvia!  You’re not a lesbian!  What the hell are you doing?  Have you gone completely mad?”

“That’s unkind, Fergus.  It’s unlike you.  I think your going to Alaska was a mistake.  You’re becoming so American, fighting with bears and then calling me mad!  I don’t think I know you any more.”

“I’m sorry, Sylvia.  Perhaps you’re right.  Go to Brussels and explore your new sexuality with my blessing.  I hope you find happiness.  Really, I do.”

“Aren’t you the least bit jealous?”  She sounded disappointed.

I decided to humor her.  “Only if she’s French.”

“Oh, Fergus, you don’t care anymore.  I hear it in your voice.  You just don’t care.”

She was right.  It came as a surprise to me too, but I really didn’t care.  Her dabbling in homosexuality shocked me a bit, but I had to admit, didn’t upset me in the least.  She could sleep with anyone she pleased.  It no longer concerned me.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t be cruel.  “Of course I care, Sylvia.  It’s just that…”

She didn’t let me finish.  “Oh…my…God…Fergus,” she said.  “There’s another woman.”

I didn’t know if she was looking out the window at a pretty Dutch girl walking by, or accusing me of having my own affair.

“What?”

“I said, you’ve found another woman!  Admit it!  That’s it, isn’t it!  YOU’VE FOUND ANOTHER WOMAN!”

I thought of Morgan.  Sylvia was right.  I had found another woman, sort of.  How could I explain?  I tried.  “Well, actually…”

“BASTARD!” she screamed.  “OH, YOU ROTTEN BASTARD.  HOW COULD YOU?!!” 

The phone went dead.  I took it away from my ear and looked at it with wonder.

‘How could I?’  She was completely mad.  I shook my head, hung up the phone, went back down to my room and crawled back into bed.

I woke at seven the next morning.  Bosworth had hopped up on my bed to remind me that he hadn’t had his breakfast.  I stroked his head, got out from under the warm covers and followed his erect and swaying tail up the stairs to the kitchen.  He rubbed against my legs while I got out his food and filled his bowl.  I carried it over to his corner and put it on the floor.  Bosworth dismissed me and settled in to eat.  I went to the window overlooking the driveway and was somewhat amazed to see the heavy, white blanket that had accumulated overnight.  It looked to be close to a foot, and the snow was still falling.

I didn’t expect Haywood any time soon, so I put on a pot of coffee and got out the yellow pages.  By the time I had found and written down all the numbers I wanted the coffee was done brewing, so I went out to the kitchen, poured a cup and fried two eggs with bacon.  When I sat down to eat my breakfast, Bosworth hopped up on the table to see if I might be willing to share.  I broke off a piece of bacon and tossed it toward his bowl.  He eased himself from the tabletop down onto a chair seat, and from there to the floor, where he proceeded toward his bowl at a majestic pace.  One mustn’t display undue excitement over a mere scrap of bacon.

I spent the rest of the morning down in the garage
, sorting through the things Haywood had brought back from the cabin.  I took both shotguns, my .444 Marlin and the .44 Blackhawk out of their cases, stripped them down and gave them a good cleaning and oiling.  Then I set aside everything I’d be taking with me when I left.  With a little sorting and culling I was able to get it all into one river bag.  That done, I set about putting the garage into some semblance of order.  I repacked several of the boxes and labeled them to identify their contents.  Then I found places, or made room for them on the shelves or under the workbench.  It took me the better part of two hours, but in the end you could see the floor again.  Haywood would actually be able to park his truck inside during the winter months.  When I had finished, I went upstairs and used the phone to make my travel arrangements.

Haywood pulled up and parked in front of the garage just before noon.  He came in stomping his feet on the entry hall floor and brushing snow out of his hair.  He took off his jacket and shook it out before hanging it on the hall tree.

“Can you believe it?” He yelled up the stairwell, “It’s still coming down!  Forecast says we’ll be getting close to two feet!”

He bounded up the stairs. “Any coffee left?”  He was obviously in high spirits.

“Yup!”  I tried to match his enthusiasm, “Half a pot – you can pour me one too.”

He kicked off his boots at the top of the stairs and went into the kitchen.

“How’s the rib?”  He asked, pouring the coffee.

“Still a little sore.  I’ve backed off on the pipe some.  Coughing hurts.”

He nodded.  “I know.  I’ve cracked a few over the years.  Just breathing hurts.”

He brought our mugs to the table and settled into a chair.  “I’ve been thinking about those stitches.  That 3X tippet I used won’t dissolve, you know.  You’ll need to have them taken out when the wounds mend.  Keep the skin soft with Vaseline and they’ll come out a lot easier.”

I nodded.  “What do you do, just cut them and pull them out?”

“That’s about it.  Feels a little weird, but they slip right out.  Casey or your uncle can do it if they’re not squeamish about such things.”

We sat quietly sipping our coffee for a while and then he said, “Had lunch yet?”

“No.  I’ve been packing and making my flight arrangements.  And, by the way, I knew you’d insist on flying me down to Anchorage tomorrow, but the weather is the shits, so I booked an Alaska Airlines connector out of Fairbanks at three-thirty.  Non-refundable ticket, so don’t object.

He grinned across the table at me.  “Got me all figured out, don’t you?”

I grinned back at him.  “Read you like a book.”

“Fair enough.  I’ll drive you out to the airport tomorrow afternoon.  What about all your gear?”

“I’ll take just one bag.  If it’s okay with you, I’ll leave the rest here.”

“No problem.  Plenty of room in the garage.  Leave it all if you like.”

I shook my head.  “No, there are a few things I’ll need to take.  Besides, I’m not leaving my fly rod here with you.  I’ve seen you lusting after it.”

He laughed.  “It is pretty.”

“Speaking of the garage…” I stood up and told him to follow me.  When I showed him what I’d done, I couldn’t tell if his face was registering astonishment or horror.  Some things are very personal – like a bachelor’s messy garage.  Whatever was going through his mind, he had the good grace to thank me.  He could always mess it up again after I’d gone.

Haywood made a couple of his famous sandwiches for lunch – salmon salad and capers on sourdough toast, with, of course, a slab of red onion.  I opened us each a bottle of beer while he labored over his creations.  We ate them standing at the kitchen counter and he told me Hard Case had called him on his cell phone and asked if we were done with the folders.  He wanted to return them to the file room before someone noticed they were missing.

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I’ve no more use for them.  He can have them back whenever he wants.”

“Good,” he said, around a mouthful of sandwich. “I’ll call him after lunch and tell him.  He can swing by tonight after he gets off work and pick them up.  Give us a chance to have a farewell drink before you go.”

“I think we need to make a liquor store run.  I didn’t come across any in the boxes you brought back from the cabin, and we killed the only bottle you had when Hard Case was here last night.  I know there’s no more in your liquor cabinet; I checked.

“Shit, that’s right.  I left four full bottles up at the cabin.  Well, I’d planned on putting a few hours in at the clinic today anyway.  I have to get up to speed on the new computer.  I’ll swing by the liquor store on the way home.”

I thought for a minute.  “How about I drop you off at the clinic.  I’ve got a few things to pick up in town – presents and such.  When I’m done, I’ll buy the booze, then pick you up at the clinic.”

“That’ll work,” he said, as he washed up at the sink.

Before we left for town, Haywood checked our beer situation and discovered there were only two bottles left.  He got them out of the refrigerator and popped them open.

“May as well make a clean sweep,” he said.

We sat at the table and drank the beers while Haywood made out his shopping list and I, mentally, made out my own.  It didn’t do me much good to write down my shopping lists, as I usually left them lying on the table anyway.  Over the years, I’d just started keeping it all in my head.

When we had finished the beers, we donned our winter coats and boots and trudged through the snow to his truck. 

I mentioned he could start parking in the garage now and avoid wading through the snow.  He answered with a non-committal grunt, so I assumed I had, indeed, crossed the line in organizing his shelves and clearing his floor.

It had been just over an hour since Haywood had come home, but even in that short time, the cab had become quite cold.  I was driving, so I cranked the heater up full.  It was just beginning to get comfortable when I dropped Haywood off at the clinic.

He climbed out and looked at his watch.  “Take your time.  Come back and get me when you’re done.  I can take care of everything here in a couple of hours.”

I told him it might be closer to three hours.  He said that was fine, slammed the door and waved.  I pulled out of the clinic’s parking lot and drove straight to Wal-Mart, where I knew I could get half the things I needed to buy.  I spent an hour shopping there.  When I came out it was still snowing, and the truck had gotten cold again.  I made four other stops, then drove out to the airport and stored all my purchases in a luggage locker inside the terminal.  Then I drove back into town and visited the liquor store before going to pick up Haywood.  It was almost five o’clock when I pulled into the clinic’s parking lot.  I rolled to a stop directly in front of the office and hit the horn a couple of times.  A female head appeared in the window and then disappeared back into the office.  After a few minutes Haywood came out, waded through deep snow, and climbed in the passenger side.

“Get all your shopping done?”

I told him I had.

“I called Hard Case just after I got here.  He’ll swing by my place at six.  You already stop at the liquor store?”

“Yup.  I bought three bottles of Dew and a case each of Rolling Rock and Alaska Ale.”

“Perfect,” he pronounced.  “That’ll get us through the night.”

When we pulled into his driveway Haywood reached up and hit the button on the automatic door-opener.

“Go ahead and drive in; I know you’re dying to.”

A good sign.  He was weakening.

Hard Case arrived an hour later.
  He said he couldn’t stay long because the snow was still piling up and he wanted to get home while he was relatively sober.  He said it wouldn’t do for a man in his position to be found drunk in a snow bank.

Haywood acknowledged the wisdom of this and asked, “What’ll it be?”

Hard Case didn’t hesitate.  “Whiskey.”  Then, by way of explanation, “It’s damned cold out there.”

Haywood laughed and poured three glasses of Dew, and we sat in the soft chairs in the living room around the fire.

Case raised his glass.  “Good seeing you again, Gus.  Safe trip home.”

Haywood said, “Here, here.”

I raised my glass and thanked them.  It was good, sitting there with my best friends.  I had been alone most of the summer.  Now the summer was over, and as Hard Case had said, it was time to go home.

Hard Case asked if I’d gone over the files and wanted to know my take on them.  I told him I thought it was all, as he had said earlier, very strange, but I’d decided to let the dead rest and try to forget the whole damned thing.