Winter Loon(51)

Jolene kissed me hard like I was leaving for war. I was embarrassed by it since we never much did that in front of Mona and Troy. But it was good and nourishing. “Drive careful. And if you’re tired, pull over. You don’t have to come back tonight. Just come back in one piece.”

In those hours driving alone, I let my thoughts wander. I shooed away my father and focused instead on Jolene, replaying our night together, the smell and feel of her. I thought about what our lives might look like, where we would live, the sex we would have, the babies, even thinking maybe she was pregnant already, a part of me putting down roots inside her. Though high wind warning signs ran the flatiron length of the Coteau des Prairies, the road seemed to propel me along like I was on a roller-coaster chain lift attached to the farmland, the cornfields crew cut for winter. The wind could not buffet me nor could I have veered even had I wanted to. I was heading toward an answer of some sort.

I got off the highway near the state university, stopped for gas and directions. The clerk said the warehouse was west of town, out by the little airport. I passed a series of trailer parks, all with hopeful names that included words like “estate” and “villa,” and remembered staying with my mother one summer in a KOA campground where she’d rented out a room in a trailer that belonged to a couple desperate enough for money that they’d taken us in. I’d slept in the top bunk of a little girl’s bedroom and my mom slept in the bottom. The girls, twins, were off with grandparents and a father who saw them only in the summer. I’d liked it there because the campground had a swimming pool and lots of kids around who didn’t already have friends and were less inclined to be picky when it came to making new ones. We were tossed out before the end of summer. I can only guess at why now. The woman, her name I don’t remember, watched us leave from the doorway, no smile on her face.

The warehouse was one of several in the area, corrugated metal, unmarked, and unremarkable. Two cars were parked next to the single white door, next to the single window. There were two overhead roller-style bays. Next to one of those, a red pickup truck with the familiar “B” logo. I was shaking, unsure my legs would hold me if I put my feet on the ground. “Okay, okay.” I opened the cab door and was talking myself into getting out when a car pulled up next to me. A wiry man in a flannel shirt, gray work pants, and boots got out. His charcoal hair was combed back so the greasy tips curled along the nape of his neck. He was carrying several white bags that I imagined held lunch since it was around noon when I pulled up. He shifted one bag into his armpit to open the door.

He held it with his foot and stopped. “Help you with something?”

I made an eager jump for the door to hold it for him. “Yeah, let me get that for you.”

He made no move to go inside. “You looking for a job?”

“No, I was looking for Nicky. Is she here?”

The man cocked his neck like a chicken. “Nicky’s not here. She’s gone already. Florida. What can I do for you?”

“Actually,” I said, kicking the dirt, trying to get my nerves up. “I’m looking for a fella called Topeka.”

“Which is it, buddy? Nicky or Topeka?”

“I’m sorry. It’s Topeka. I’m looking for Topeka. Do you know him?”

His skin was weathered and his nose bent this way, then that. Up close I could see the gray whiskers on a face that had never grown a decent beard. When he was done looking me up and down, he nodded toward the inside for me to follow him.

The warehouse was vast and deep. Carnival equipment, booths, and rides were staggered in the back. Sparks flew from a welder’s repair project in the center of the concrete floor. There was a little office near a side wall with a window to the shop floor. A man sat behind a desk there. It wasn’t Topeka.

“Wait here,” the man said. He disappeared behind the office door. Through the window, I could see a conversation being had, the glances my way. I stood still and tall, tried not to look around too much, to pass inspection if that’s what this was. The longer I stood there, the more I felt cornered somehow, like a bandit was watching me from behind a rock. I imagined them huddled behind the equipment, trying to figure a way out.

Topeka strolled in, more tattoos than the last time I saw him, same fingers rising out of his collar brushing his jawbone, same porkpie hat. His blue eyes pierced me.

“So where is he?” I asked.

Topeka’s head twitched, and he scratched the lobe of his ear. Confusion registered in his eyes. “Where’s who?”

“My dad. Moss. I’m Wes Ballot. He’s here, right? That’s what took you so long.”

“I was in the shitter, if you don’t mind.” He took the hat off and scratched his bald head. He squinted at me. Nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah. I see it. You look like him. Nicky told me some kid was looking for Moss, said he was his son. I figured she had it wrong. Couldn’t be, I told her.”

“I remember you,” I said. “You worked on the Fun House. You were his friend.”

“Yeah, yeah. Wow. I can’t get over this.” He kept squinting at me, shaking his head. “Man, I’m sorry. He’s not here. Hey, you want a sandwich? Phil brought enough for everyone.”

So there would be no reunion. My stomach rumbled. “Yeah, okay.”

“C’mon. Sit down and eat something.”