Authors: Will Weaver
Memory Boy (9 page)
My father nodded.
“Was that that gang of little shits on four-wheelers?” the Humvee driver said, looking at the dust cloud and the tracks up the bank.
“I would say that was them,” my father said.
“Their ass is grass,” the Humvee passenger said. “We've had nothing but trouble with that bunch.”
“They did seem a little short on structured summer activities,” my mother said. My heart was still pounding.
“Tell you what,” the Humvee driver said. “We'll give you folks an escort for a few miles just to make sure you're safe. In fact, I've got a tow rope. Why don't you hook on?”
“Miles?” my mother said.
The government never did anything for me, that's for sure. Most people depend on the government. Not me. I depended on myself
.
“Sure,” I said.
“Thank you,” my mother said to the soldier. As we hooked on and got ready for our free ride, she glanced at me and shrugged. “Crow is not that bad to eat. As an adult, you get used to it.”
“Excuse me?” the Humvee driver said to her.
“An inside joke,” my mother said.
“Ready!” I called to the driver. And with a small lurch we were off. We kicked back and let the breeze blow over us as we rolled north.
BUENA VISTA REVISITED
THE ORAL-HISTORY PROJECT CONTINUED FOR
six weeks. Six times I visited Mr. Kurz. Mainly we worked on things. Sometimes he talked, sometimes he didn't. Unlike most of the other ninth graders, I didn't bother with a tape recorder. I didn't even take notes. I could remember what I needed to. And anyway, most of it was rambling, useless stuff.
Berries. A man should know his berries. Best ones are blueberries. If they can escape a late frost in June, you're lucky. But they're hardy plants. They don't need a lot of sunlight, plus they grow best where there are pine trees and the soil is sandy. Blueberries like pine needles for some reason. Makes the soil sour, is my theory. You want to find blueberries, look for pines, rocks, and sand. But they don't last long. If the bears don't get them, by the end of July, they're done
.
Wild grapes last a little longer. Look for them along riverbanks and swamps. The vines use other trees to climb up and get better light. They depend on other trees. Kind of like most people depend on the government. Parasites, I call them. But wild grapes are mighty tasty. Most times you got to look high up and climb for them, but they're worth it
.
High-bush cranberries last the longestâagain, if the birds or bears don't get them. They come in red clusters. You'll see them in September, where it's swampy, hanging from bushes a tall man high. Sometimes you can smell cranberries before you see themâkind of a rank, sweet odor. They're good all fall and into the winter, even if they freeze. Once when I was trapping in January, I saw some bushes red with them. Those berries were as hard and clear as agates. I picked them, but I had nothing to carry them in except my hat, which I had to put back on my head 'cause it was cold. When I got home, the heat of my skull had thawed the berries and red juice was running down my neck. I looked like I'd been in a fight with a bear. I made jelly that night. Whole cabin smelled of it, hot and tangy
.
Okay, fine. I could do something with the bear part. Maybe make up that the bear had broken into his cabin. Hand-to-hand combat. Who was going to know? Plus I'd heard that Litzke graded mainly on volume. Some kids said he had a scale and weighed the final project: The heavier the interview, the more the pages, the better the grade.
My brothers, my whole family, they always thought I was crazy. Just because I lived alone and saved my money. Not like them, with credit cards and house payments and fancy cars. I told them, when you pay interest, you're working for the bank. Banks are like prisonsâyou just can't see the walls. They said I was nuts. Just because I never had a credit card in my life, and no house payment, either. Nuts, they called me. But that's how I could live so cheapâI never paid any interest to nobody. But you live like a hermit, they told me. Maybe so, but I'll bet I got more money put away than you do, I told them. Which was a mistake. You never want to tell anybodyânot even your own familyâwhat you got. Because once you tell, you're a marked man
.
Mr. Litzke took great pleasure in asking me how Mr. Kurz and I were getting along.
“Fine,” I told him.
Once he dropped by Mr. Kurz's room to check on us. Luckily I managed to hide my tools.
“Well, are you two getting a lot of work done?” he asked loudly.
“A lot,” I said. So far Mr. Kurz and I had repaired four skateboards, and I had cleared a total of eighty bucks reselling them.
Mr. Kurz stared suspiciously at Litzke. We were all silent.
“Carry on, then,” Litzke said.
After he left, Mr. Kurz muttered, “Who was that guy?”
“He works for the government,” I whispered.
“That's what I thought,” Mr. Kurz said.
They never found me, though. They came up north and were snooping around, asking, but no one knew where my cabin was. That's because it wasn't on the tax roll. He, he, he. Why buy your own land when there's thousands of acres of it just sitting there? State lands belong to the people. And that's me, I'm the people. A veteran, too. In the War I fought in Italy, Germany, France, you name it. Before the War I was different. I liked people. But when it was over in forty-five, all I wanted was a little peace and quiet. So I went up north and found me a spot on the river and built me a shack on the Mississippi. Near Itasca Park, that's all I'll say. Better than a shack. A nice little cabin. No roads to it, eitherâbut you could get to it by car. He, he, he. That's all I'll say about that. Anyway, when my family couldn't find me, they had to leave me alone. Which is the way I wanted it. I lived by myself for over fifty years. Happy as a clam, too. My mistake was coming down to the city for my sister's funeral. She got old and died. Don't know how that happened. But she was the only nice one among my brothers and sisters, so I took the Greyhound bus down from Bemidji. I was eighty-nine myself by then. They were waiting for me, oh yes. All smiles. I should have known something was up. After the funeral they said, Hans, we want you to stay on with us. No thanks, I said. They said, You can't go on anymore living like you do, like a wild man, like a hermitâlook at you, they said. I said I liked my life just fine. They said, We have a place for you here in the city. A place of your own, they said. They kept smiling. All smiles. That night I slipped out of the house, tried to walk to the Greyhound bus station. But I got turned around. Every street looked the same. I couldn't remember which direction anything was. I didn't know which way was home. I just wanted to get back up north to my cabin. But the police found me, took me back to my brother's place. And here I am. At Buena Vista. What kind of name is Buena Vista, anyway? That's what I want to know
.
“It's Spanish,” I said as I tightened a truck nut. “It means beautiful view.” I kept working. I hadn't been listening closely.
Then I felt him staring at me, and I looked up. His beady blue eyes had swelled with water. His heavy lower lids were like two dams ready to break and let their rivers flow. Suddenly he turned away from me. He went to his armchair and sat staring out the window.
SQUATTERS
AFTER A FIVE-MILE TOW FROM
the friendly soldiers, we unhooked at County Road 77. “We'll take it from here,” I said.
The soldiers saluted and went on their way.
“Well, that worked out well,” Nat said.
We laughed at her, then pointed the
Princess
down the familiar curving dirt road. After our rest, we pedaled quickly uphill and down, like runners in their final kick. Panting, we rolled up the last hill, the trees close along both sides of the road, then arrived at our driveway. We were all laughing and smiling. Sarah hopped off and ran to the mailbox. “Who knows, maybe I have mail already!”
“Knowing your friends, I wouldn't doubt it,” I said. Sarah's group gave new meaning to the word codependency.
The mailbox door squeaked open. Sarah's hand emerged with some envelopes. She stared at them. “There is mail.”
My mother frowned and stepped forward.
“They're addressed to somebody named Kleinke,” Sarah said. “And here's one for a D. Tolber.”
“Must be a mistake,” my mother said. She took the envelopes from Sarah and looked at them.
My eyes went to the driveway. There was a recent tire track, possibly a motorcycle, in the powdery dirt. I squinted up the narrow, curving driveway.
“Or there might be somebody here,” I murmured.
“Where?” my mother said.
I nodded toward the driveway, and pointed to the tire tracks in the ash.
“Well, there better not be,” my mother said, and began to walk quickly up the driveway. We hurried to catch up.
Soon, through the trees, we saw the brown roofline.
Then the glint of window glass and the coppery log front of the cabin. But in the yard everything was changed. We drew up to stare.
A car, a late-model sedan, was parked on the side and covered with ash. Another older car, without wheels, sat halfway into the trees. A large, shiny Harley perched on the porch; its wheel tracks in the ashy driveway led right up the wooden steps, which looked chewed and splintered.
To the left, hanging on the clothesline (we never had a clothesline), was somebody's wash. Lots of kids' clothes. Behind the house came the
chak
sound of an axe splitting wood. Some kind of animal went
“baa!”
There were laughing voices of little kids. Only the lake was the same. Gull Lake sparkledâas alwaysâin the sunlight.
“What the hell is going on here!” my mother yelled. She stalked forward.
“Wait. Nat! Go carefully!” my father said.
But that only made my mother pick up her pace. We followed her. After all, it was our cabin.
She thumped onto the porch, grabbed the screen door, and strode inside. The house smelled of cooking, garlic in particular. By the fireplace a couple of small children were playing cars and dolls on the stone floor; when Nat burst in, they screamed and ran for the back door.
They were normal-looking little kids in summer clothes; the girl, a redhead about four years old, turned, rushed back, grabbed a monkey doll, and rushed away again. We heard them calling, “Momma! Daddy! Danny!”
Soon a man rushed inside; he was shirtless, pale and out of shape.
“What are
you
doing in our house?” Sarah said. She had stepped ahead of my mother.
The man swallowed and looked behind him. A woman holding a baby appeared. She looked like an ordinary mother.
“Your house?” the woman said. Something caught in her voice.
“That's right,” my mother said. “I'm Natalie Newell, this is my family, and you're in our cabin.”
“Listen,” the man began, stammering slightly. “I'm Rick and this is my wife, Ruth. Kleinke is our last name.”
“We could care less who you are,” Sarah said, her voice getting hysterical. “Get out!”
My father quickly put his arm around Sarah. “Easy, easy now,” he murmured. He looked at Rick and Ruth. “We can work this out, I'm sure,” he said with his stage voice. He even managed a smile.
The man's wife, Ruth, did not smile. She looked stunned. “I always knew this would happen.”
Her words stiffened the man's posture. “We've been here for nearly a year,” he said, as if that was supposed to explain everything.
“And now it's time for you and your family to leave,” my mother said.
The man named Rick frowned. “Things are different now.”
“Yes, that's right, different,” his wife murmured. Her eyes flickered to the floor, then back up.
“Heyâwhat the hell's going on here?” a louder voice boomed. A large man came in from the deck. He wore a black T-shirt that covered his big chest but not his round belly; a red bandana held back long stringy hair. His full beard was peppered with sawdust, and he held an axe.
“The owners. They've arrived,” Rick said.
“Well, well, well,” the burly man said. He set down his axe. Alongside him appeared another woman who was dressed like himâthey looked like a biker couple. She also had wood chips on her black, sleeveless T-shirt. She had no bra on, that was clear.
“So the absentee owners finally appear,” the man said with a grin.
“The phone?” my mother said. “I need to make a call.”
“You should know where it is,” the man said. He narrowed his eyes.
Nat went to the knotty-pine wall cabinet and opened it up.
“Right here,” she said, turning to show everyone. She picked up the receiver, punched in three numbers. I guessed they were 911. Then she held the receiver to her ear.