Celebration on Mackinac, Part 2

Celebration on Mackinac, part 2

It was rare for his wife to call him at work. She was the old fashioned type and believed that work was work and one didn’t need to be bothered by little home annoyances. Even when his youngest had broken her arm 9 years ago, he hadn’t discovered it until he got home that evening. Julie hadn’t wanted to burden him, she said, and anyway, there was nothing he could do about it. He’d just be in the way.

So it was both fortuitous and unusual that while he was at the Subway, collecting from the Singhs the receipts out of the safe, that he should get a phone call. When they told him it was his wife, he couldn’t imagine it, and assumed it was probably Sasha’s secretary looking for him.

“Hello?” he said, a little gingerly.

“Bill, I think you better come home right now.” His wife’s voice was terse and he immediately jumped to the worst.

“Oh, god, honey, is everything OK? Is anyone hurt? Where are the girls? Are the girls OK?” He couldn’t understand it. He had done everything right for Sasha. He could barely breathe as he spoke with her. His face must have foretold his feelings because the Singhs had looks of concern on their faces. Mr. Singh walked back into the office to retrieve Bill’s summer jacket.

“Well, yes, the girls are fine, Bill. In fact, one of your lovely daughters is sitting here with me right this minute. She’d like to tell you something. I think you should come home,” said his wife again. This time, he heard more anger than fear in her voice. It relaxed him, but only enough to get off the phone and grab his coat.

“We hope everything is OK, Mr. Garhart,” the Singhs called after him. He waved and ducked into his car, speeding off toward his home. What could possibly be wrong? Why did he have to go home? Why would his wife be so angry? Pregnant? Was his little girl pregnant? Who cared, that was nothing. Hopefully, she was pregnant. Or maybe she had gotten engaged or married without telling them. That would be OK, just fine, he thought. As long as she was alive and well enough to make her mother angry, what could be wrong? Whatever it was, they could live through it.

He brightened up on his way, loosening his tie just a little to let more air in. What could be the matter? As long as his babies were safe. He pulled into the driveway, behind his daughter’s old Toyota Corolla. She had worked 3 summers straight to buy that heap. He had been so proud of her. His original plan was buy her a new car for graduation from college, but that dream would not materialize, at least not the way things were going.

He headed into the house and found his youngest and Julie in the living room. Before he even had a chance to say hello, his wife started in.

“I don’t know what to do with this one. I don’t know what to do. Why don’t you tell your father why you’re here instead of in school like you should be. Go on. Tell him,” she said, pacing back and forth on the living room floor.

Bill moved past his wife and gave his daughter a kiss on the cheek. “Hi pumpkin, how are you?” he asked, putting his briefcase down and sitting on the chair next to the sofa.

“Hi daddy,” she said. Her arms were folded across her chest and she seemed more interested in a fight with her mother than in talking to him.

“It’s not that big of a deal, Mom. You are making it sound like I’m the criminal. I didn’t do anything!”

“What were you doing there in the first place? What kind of people do you hang out with that would get you in this much trouble? We don’t have a second mortgage on the house so you can be suspended,” said his wife.

“Suspended? Honey, you got suspended?” So this was what the excitement was all about. Shoot, thought Bill. She’s not even pregnant. “You’re not pregnant, are you?” he asked, just to be sure.

“No, daddy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You don’t get suspended for getting pregnant.”

“Well, since you’ve obviously become an overnight expert, why don’t you tell your father what you do get suspended for,” said Julie.

“First of all, Daddy, Mo-ther, it’s not that big of a deal and I’m going to work it out.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” said Julie. “Just tell him.”

“Well, there was this party on campus. One of the fraternities. It was just another party, you know, just blowing off steam before finals. Anyway, the school has this zero tolerance program going on after some kid died of alcohol poisoning, and . . .”

“Were you drinking?” asked Bill.

“No, daddy. I mean, I had like a beer or something, but I was not drunk or stoned or anything. Anyway, can I please finish my story?”

“Finish. Finish,” said his wife.
“So, anyway, turns out one of the guys who was at the party was dealing and there was this abandominium down the street and . . .”

“Abandominium? What is that?” asked Bill, his tenseness growing.

“It’s a place, like an abandoned apartment or house, you know, where people hang out and do drugs.”

“How do you know about that. Do you go there?” he was almost afraid to ask.

“Everyone knows about them, and no, I do not go there. Can I please just get through this. Jeez, you guys are making a big deal out of this. If you’d just let me finish.”

“So finish,” said her mother again. Bill was growing increasingly uneasy.

“OK, so anyway, there was this abandominium that the cops busted up and this girl, she goes to our school, she fingered this guy who was dealing, who happened to be at the party. Anyway, all of us who were hanging out with him were picked up, too. It was no big deal. He’s not even a student there or anything. Just a guy.”

“And that’s the whole story,” said Julie, flatly, to her daughter.

“What? Like there’s supposed to be something dramatic?”

“That’s not what the phone call I got said was the whole story.”

Bill’s daughter let out a big sigh and finished the whole story. “Well, I know you guys are going to make a big deal out of this. And it’s not a big deal. I wasn’t doing any hard drugs. I wasn’t with this guy. He sells really hard stuff and I’m not into that.”

“But you knew him?” asked Bill.

“I mean, yeah, I knew him. We’re sort of friends and all, but I’m just saying I don’t do meth, dad, or coke or xanax or ‘x’ any stuff some of the other kids do. All they found on me was a little pot and they went like totally ballistic. . . . it was so lame. Like I’m some sort of bad guy or something. Anyway, I got suspended. And can I just add, not expelled? Suspended.”

Bill inched his way toward his daughter. “You . . . you smoke pot?”

“Daddy, it’s not a big deal.”

“You say you know this dealer and he’s not a student. Who is he and why do you hang out with him? What’s his name? What’s he doing around the school if he’s not a student?”

“I mean, I don’t know him know him, but like, I see him around at parties and like at the student union and stuff. He’s just a guy, daddy. I mean, I don’t even know his last name. Everyone calls him Bobby C. But can I just point out that I was not expelled, please? It’s just 3 days.”

He had promised himself. He had promised Sasha. He was a straight shooting guy who never flinched, never snapped. He felt his head tighten, as if it were going to explode. He felt the heat leave and then reenter his body. He felt the fear dissipate until there was only anger left. He snapped. Bill let out a scream that seemed to release all the anger, frustration and fear that had gotten to him in the past months. There. In his living room. To the shock of his family.

Bill ran into the kitchen, opening drawers at a frantic pace, looking for something sharp. Anything. He ran out the back door and into his tool shed to find his bowie knife.

Mackinac was 4 hours south. He had never been but he figured it was somewhere down highway ____________. He would find a way to get there. No one would stop him. He didn’t care anymore what happened to him. Going to jail was better than supplying his own daughter with drugs. He would kill Sasha, too, but that would have to wait until he came back, since he didn’t know where he lived and it would take some time. But he could get to Dick now. And he would. He started driving.

Two hours into the trip, his anger had not died down. He was more driven than ever. He had not even stopped to find directions. There was no little voice inside him as he drove toward Dick that held him back this time. He did not hear or feel Jesus with him. He was not certain at this moment that God even existed. All he knew was that he had to protect his children. He would kill Sasha somehow. That would take some thinking. Prison was not good enough for him. But Dick he would see this very night.

At one point, Bill heard Woody Guthrie’s Ludlow Massacre, come through the radio; it fueled him to go the distance.

We were so afraid you would kill our children,

We dug us a cave that was seven foot deep,

Carried our young ones and pregnant women

Down inside the cave to sleep.
That very night your soldiers waited,

Until all us miners were asleep,

You snuck around our little tent town,

Soaked our tents with your kerosene.
You struck a match and in the blaze that started,

You pulled the triggers of your gatling guns,

I made a run for the children but the fire wall stopped me.

Thirteen children died from your guns.

Bill followed the signs to Mackinaw City and arrived at about 9 in the evening. None of the thoughts that were loose and running through his mind were particularly logical at the moment; he was completely fueled by emotion. At some level, he was cognizant enough of his state to understand that he didn’t really know what he was doing, but he was moving forward, nonetheless.

It hadn’t occurred to him until just this moment that there might not be any ferries shuttling people over to the island at this time. His heart raced as he drove down toward the docks. Though he had never set foot in the city, the place was small and he was able to find the docks.

This time of night, there was little activity at the ferries and he couldn’t tell whether there were any boats yet left to go over to the island. It was still light out, and there were workers milling about. Bill followed the signs that said “free overnight parking,” and pulled into a space not far away. He ran toward the white building that surely must be a ticket office.

“Are there any more trains this evening?” he asked, breathless and desperate?

“Last one leaves in 20 minutes. 9:30 on the dot,” came the answer from the ticket seller behind the glass. “$16.00 please.”

“And when is the last ferry off the island?”

“11, so unless you’re making a quick trip, you’ll have to stay the night. You do know there are no hotel rooms available on the island, right? The Race to Mackinac just ended and it’s a madhouse there,” she said.

“I’ll take my chances.”

The boat ride was quick. Four hours and 27 minutes into his journey, Bill’s resolve was not weakened. He stepped off the island and started asking where Dick Grund’s place was. Dick? Who? No one knew. For such a big man, Bill thought, he was certainly not a celebrity on Mackinac. His mind went naturally to the one place he considered a good source for directions: the police station. He decided better of that option and continued to make his way up toward the center of the island, undaunted. Surely, someone in one of the big mansions he’d seen would be able to tell him.

He stopped at the Grand Hotel. He had never seen anything like it before in his life. So this is how the other half lives, thought Bill, amazed at the beautiful wide expanse of veranda that flanks the front. He wondered how much a room went for. This thing about not being able to get off the island has put a slight crimp in his plans. Bill made his way up the grandiose staircase and into the front lobby, where he found a concierge.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Dick Grund,” he said, smiling at the woman behind the antique partner’s desk.

“Is he a guest in the hotel?” she asked.

“No, he’s a . . . a local, I guess you could say.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t think I know him, but our general manager might. Can you just wait here?” She got up to leave. Bill waited.

Bill looked around at the famous hotel in all its glory. The nicest place he and Julie had ever stayed was a Windham hotel in Chicago once. He imagined bringing his wife here and how she would love just one night in a place like this. They could sit on the veranda together and sip exotic drinks, watching the sun set over the lake, and . . .

“So, heading up to ol’ Dick’s party, are you?” the voice came out of nowhere and scared Bill for a moment.

“Yes, the party. Yes, he invited me.”

“Well, he’ll be glad you could make it, if you find him. I hear his parties are legendary and big. If you get lucky, you see him. What do you do for Dick? Or are you just old friends?” the Manager asked him. Bill could see that he was eyeing his clothes, which were not really party clothes. He had forgotten to remove his tie, even. He supposed he looked a little silly.

“I’m his accountant,” said Bill, suddenly self-conscious about his tie and shirt combination (clearly working class, he thought). He hoped the “accountant” thing would cover for the outfit. “I would have come earlier, but I was working on another matter,” he said.

“Of course, of course. Yes, well, you should loosen your tie and get ready to have a good time. But I’m sure you know that,” he said with a wink. “Anyway, the party’s probably just getting started, so you didn’t miss much. And the place, it’s not hard to find. I’m sure you’ll hear music when you get close, but let me draw you a little map.”

Map in hand, Bill walked away from the antique desk and back toward the grand expanse of steps. Though his mind was on a single focused act, he couldn’t help but look at his surroundings. He didn’t smell the mildew that permeated the old hotel. He didn’t see the worn and faded cushions on the lobby chairs. Bill saw only the grandeur. Through his eyes it was a playground for people not like him. It was a place for the wealthy ne’er-do-well playboy and the old money gentry. He wished again in that moment that his wife could share the place with him.

As he made his way out of the hotel, he noticed the black men in their monkey suits, racing past him toward the dining room, and the black women in their maids’ outfits no doubt doing maid things, and the black men in their box hats helping people out of the horse drawn carriages. It struck him as strange, and a little plantation-like. He wondered if that’s the way wealthy people liked it – like the old days, before things like political correctness got in the way. Before pension funds got too big. A place where you didn’t have to be held accountable for what you did. Well, Dick Grund was going to be held accountable. He would walk right up and in front of everyone, tell that man what he had done to an entire community, to him, to his daughter.

As the manager had predicted, he could hear the sounds of music and partying before he arrived at the place. He had not been expecting a party when he started his journey, but it wasn’t going to deter him now. He wondered if Dick would be at the front door, greeting each guest, as he and his wife did when they had a party. He would have to do it then, right then, because a man as important as that, well, he might have bouncers and they would be told to look for him. He toyed with ripping off his tie so he would blend in more, but it wouldn’t matter; he could never blend in with these people anyway.

Bill approached the big Victorian style home with the sense of awe that most rich people never have; the sense of awe – some might say – in which the house was meant to be viewed. He had only seen such things in books and on his family trips to places in Keewenaw county, but then they were always converted to museums. Certainly no one lived in such places and if they did, it was their primary home. Such largess, well, it was simply obscene.

There was no one standing at the top of the stairs that he could see. There were no brawny men, like he had seen standing at the front of the Main Street bars, waiting to discard undesirables. There was only Frank Sinatra, and the buzz of people talking and laughing. He stood in front for a moment, wondering how he should do this thing. It occurred to him now that he had never killed a man, not even when he served in Viet Nam. He didn’t know the first thing about killing a man, but he had killed plenty of ducks and a few deer. Go for the neck, he thought. The neck is better than the heart.

Several people walked past him and over toward the side gate. One couple smiled at him.

“You trying to get in? Dick usually leaves the side gate open. C’mon, the drinks are flowing,” the woman said with a smile. Bill followed her in.

Inside the back yard there were throngs of people. He hung to the side, straining his neck to see above and around the revelers, in hopes of getting a good look at Dick and making his move. People were drunk and loud. For the most part, standing there – even out of place – he was ignored. It occurred to him only now that he might be able to get away with this without being caught or noticed; that it might be better to wait until the wee hours of the morning and come back. He considered this plan. He couldn’t get off the island anyway – no boats would be leaving for the mainland until tomorrow morning. Now he needed a place to hide and wait. He had to plan it just right. Not too late so no one was around except maybe his wife. Not too soon so too many people were around. Just right.

He eyed the backyard and its low hanging wisteria lining the back. It looked as if it was a safe and secluded place to lay in wait, if he could ease himself behind it. He had hunted all his life. If he could find a place to crouch, he could be very still for a very long time, listening, listening, waiting. He pushed silently through the noisy boisterous crowd, still looking about as he did so to see if he could spot Dick. He couldn’t.

Bill ducked behind the wisteria. Evidently, he was not the only one looking for a secluded spot. A giggling couple passed him on the way out. He would have to find a place as far back as possible, unsuitable for necking. As he scooted past the couple, he spotted a cluster of rosemary bushes lining a back gate. He wished he had worn long sleeves at that moment, since rosemary could be prickly, but he crawled behind it and crouched low. No one would come back this far. He waited.

From his vantage point he could see nothing, but he heard the sounds of an ever growing party around him. He heard footsteps very near him and occasionally they would be accompanied by soft conversation. He was completely obscured as he listened to the conversations intended for no third party’s ears. No one knew he was there, and if he did move, surely he would be thought just an animal. He felt safe in the cocoon of the rosemary. Though the branches had scratched him when he first crawled into the space, he hardly felt them now. In fact, this was considerably more tolerable than hunting. He had a purpose now. He was doing something righteous now. He could wait.

He had made one bad decision going to Bobby C. that fateful day. And that decision was made without rational thinking. In retrospect, he realized that he had not been thoughtful about it at all. Here, now, he had time to think about this decision. He had time to consider the consequences. He couldn’t escape his debt to Sasha and he didn’t believe that Sasha would ever honor his agreement to let him go once he got paid, so it didn’t matter now. This decision was made with a conscious understanding of what might befall him should he be caught. And it didn’t matter. Sasha couldn’t touch him now. He didn’t care.

The party continued to rage on. It got louder. He heard footsteps again, this time he could tell by the voices that it was two men together. He laid low as they talked. The conversations were not particularly interesting, but it helped him pass the time. He imagined who the men were, what they looked like, from their words.

“I’ve got what I promised, Jujee, and it’s yours for pick-up as soon as you bring me what you promised.”

“You ain’t gotta worry, Mr. Walker, I be back in 20 wid everyt’ing. Cook and curry. No problem.”

“Let’s make it an hour. I need to go make arrangements. You meet me right back here in one hour exactly.”

“Yah. Right here, Mr. Walker.”

Bill heard one of the men leave. The other seemed to stay behind. He could hear him rustling through the bushes and Bill worried that he was getting too close. The bushes moved, and Bill could see a pair of legs just on the other side of the rosemary. This man was looking for something. Had Bill miscalculated? Could he be seen? He held his breath. Oh god… oh god… please don’t let him find me.

Suddenly, the man pulled the bushes back just in front of Bill and let fly a small canvas bag, about the size of a large woman’s purse. The stiff rosemary caught and partially suspended the bag from hitting the ground. The man gave another push and the bag fell just to Bill’s left. He thought sure he had been seen, but the man seemed satisfied that what he came to do had been completed and Bill heard him walk back out toward the party.

Bill’s heart was still racing from the adrenaline of the foregoing moments. He looked at the bag in the fading light. It was a boating bag with a zippered top. He knew the man would be back for the bag, and judging from the conversation, it would be within the hour. When he came to retrieve it, Bill would be discovered, no doubt, since the man would have to climb back, as Bill did, to get it. He needed to move, perhaps to the other side of the yard, where he might find – he hoped he would find – another place to seclude himself.

Quietly, he reached over to the zipper and drew it toward him. Inside was cash. Lots of it in 6 little bundles. It wasn’t neatly secured with little bands that said how much was in each bundle, like he was used to seeing on television. Each bundles was encased in a rubber band. He gently lifted a wad of the cash and looked at the bills. They were $100s. The only time he had seem a one hundred dollar bill was when he went to the bank to get two for his oldest daughter’s wedding. He had never seen so much money. He counted silently: $10,000.00 in each bundle. $60,000.00.

He had come to do damage to Dick Grund. He could finish what he started. Or he could walk away right now. He could steal this cash, or some of it, and walk away right now. Right Now. He could plant $30,000 on Sasha’s desk, far more that he owed him, and walk away from that, too. Sasha didn’t need him any more. He kept him around because Bill still owed him. But that first day in the coffee shop hadn’t he said that he would be free the moment Bill was relieved of his debt? This would do it.

It was stealing, he knew. And the poor man who left the money there would be frantic. He knew that too. If he was an honest man, well, Bill would feel just terrible. But what honest man does business in the bushes with cash? No, this was money from ill-gotten gains, he was sure of that. Besides, the people at this party could well afford to lose $60,000. Hell, Dick Grund had spent over twice that much just on a stupid boat race.

There was no time to give this further thought. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you,” he whispered. Then he removed all six bundles from the bag, shoving two in his pockets, four in his socks. He crawled out of the bushes and eased back into the crowd, his hand shoved deep into his pockets to explain the bulge. When he got back into the main part of town, he would buy a bag of some sort, something innocuous. There was the little matter of staying on the island all night, but judging from the festivities going on about the island, it would not be odd to be seen walking the streets in the wee hours of the morning.

Bill eased out of the party and back onto the street. It was 11 o’clock, and well past the witching hour for the ferries. He had 8 hours to go before he could leave, but it didn’t damper his spirits. “Thank you, Jesus. Thank you for not forgetting me. I’ll keep my promise to you. I’ll keep it right now,” he said.

Once he got far enough away from the house to have some privacy, he removed the money from his socks and shoved it in the back of his underwear, so he could walk a little less gingerly. And he quickly found a t-shirt shop in which to buy a duffle bag for his booty. He also bought a t-shirt and a sweatshirt for his wife. It was $122.48 well spent. The sales clerk didn’t flinch when he handed her two $100 bills.

Bill spent the first few hours wondering the commercial streets of the tiny island. As he was at Dick Grund’s party, he was largely ignored. Finally, he walked to the end of the main street and peered in the windows of the public library, locked and dark for the evening. He wandered around to the back and spotted two Adirondack chairs facing Lake Huron. He settled into one and spent the rest of the very early morning staring out at the water, listening to its wavesong, watching and waiting for the sun to rise. At 8am, he caught the ferry back to his car and filled his tank for the ride back home.

There would be some money left after paying Sasha, but he would still have to find a job soon, which meant he would probably have to leave Portage; maybe move to Detroit or Ann Arbor. There was still his daughter to contend with, he knew that. Nothing that had happened had changed the situation at her school. Nothing he did would change the fact that she knew Bobby C. But he somehow felt freer to deal with it now, more conscious, more alive. The sickness in his stomach was gone. And there was that little promise he’d made to Jesus. He thought he better get started on that now. Bill walked over to a payphone and called his wife.

“Julie? It’s me.”

“Bill! God, Bill, are you OK? Where are you? We were worried sick about you.”

“Julie, Julie . . . I’m OK. I’m, well, I needed to take a long drive and think about things, that’s all. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I’m OK. Are you OK?”

“We’re fine, Bill. We just . . . when you let out that yell and ran out, it was like you were . . . like we didn’t know you. We were just worried sick,” she said. He could hear that she was starting to cry.

“Julie, no, don’t cry. I’m OK. And we’ll all be OK. I’m coming home and I should be back in a few hours. Don’t worry. I’ll call you from the road. We need to talk and I’m afraid I have to tell you some things you don’t want to hear, but the good news is that I know we’ll get through it.”

“Talk? Do you want to tell me you’ve been seeing someone? Because . . .”

“No, honey, nothing like that. I love you. We just need to . . . it’s time I told you what’s been happening. It’s time we worked together as a team. Can you wait until I get home? Everything’s fine. I just have some things to talk about, that’s all.”

He hung up the phone and climbed into his car for the journey back. He would tell her everything and it would be fine. He thought back to the words of the Woody Guthrie song that had fueled his anger on the trip down, and mouthed the words as the tears ran down his face.

The state soldiers jumped us in a wire fence corners,

They did not know we had these guns,

And the Red-neck Miners mowed down these troopers,

You should have seen those poor boys run.



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