CHAPTER 49
“New truck,” says Wilson.
“The old one was rusted out, shedding pieces on the highway.”
“Expensive?”
“A lot more than the last one.”
Wilson sighs and strokes the dash, nestling into the passenger’s bucket seat. “It’s like my living room.” Wilson is riding in Walshinksi’s new truck, the Chrysler Corporation’s current manifestation of Ram-rugged, a machine clear coat shiny, with designer bumpers that could not tow a cow or cat. Unlike Walshinksi’s former 1972 power wagon with its metal dash and hard bench seat… This truck is padded - soft inside, as if Walshinksi and his work had changed, morphed into something lacking calluses or odor. “They sold me on the management package,” says Walshinksi as Wilson observes, “Trucks have sure changed.”
Yet, Walshinksi, the workingman… had not changed that much. But those who bought the trucks had. Since the sixties-seventies, the manufacturers had figured out that trucks, thanks to tariffs, had the highest profit margin. The real truck market, if GM or Ford or Chrysler wished to make a bundle, was, like America, a place of myth and dreams and fable… a somewhat fraud, faux-rugged location full of, when it came to trucks, a bunch of wannabees, the buyers eighty percent men and over the hill or near the launch of the years of mid-life crisis… the fish story size of their lives increasing with age and paunch and flab, and, if the blue pill adds were correct, also erectile disfunction. .
Constantly advertised next to football in the fall, vehicles designed for a leather market of softer men who worked in offices, men laden with self-deluding pretensions of hard work. A part of the rugged freedom myth peddled to American males designed to obscure that they were growing soft, that their America was not the USA that had emerged victorious from WW2.
Russia lost, communism dead, the cold war only a frosty memory. They, America, capitalism had triumphed over socialism. It was the common knowledge and conventional wisdom. The good guys had won, Ronald Reagan’s ‘shining city on a hill’ triumphant. And the reward… The men of America could drive a truck of freedom even as their wages stagnated, their wives were suddenly somehow working, and college for junior was becoming so expensive that they were stealing from their 401 k’s and their pensions to pay for it, so that Stevie or Bobby, Mary or Alice, could have the same damn wonder...The American Dream.
Buy a truck, ignore your reality, put on your oblivious baseball, seed, or corporate logo hat… past myths vaporized and headed south. Ignore the latent haunt of change, of something amiss, askew, not quite right, hovering in the nation’s air. It was a worldwide economy now. And you’re a man. Look at that damn truck. Take her for a spin… Meet wide-open vistas shouting of the past and future, loud in video advertisements!
Hell, imagine…you could be a farmer, a rancher… your ranch runs on for miles and miles. And we will provide a comfy cushioned seat just like your computer’s chair, leather and heated too. It’s a good thing you own that expanding vista, because leaving the cabin cocoon of life is difficult. Yep, it’s cold outside. And it is going to get colder.
That was it… Trucks and Men who hugged the myths of America for self-worth… Bankers, Lawyers, city manager types, enticed by commercials of beer and freedom, imaginary bales of hay and mountain vistas, to purchase the most shiny, softest, work vehicles ever known to man... Even as the jobs of America were swimming wet, in the wrong direction, across the Rio Grande.
Wilson sighs and rubs the soft seat beneath him, imagining his Republican farmer/politician grandfather in such a vehicle. It would have never happened. Grandfather would have disdained such transport, clad in overalls when working. His soft interiors were left to Sunday suits and Cadillacs.
Marketing… Ford and Chevy, Dodge, the auto industry had figured out that trucks were more about image and less about dirt. Not that Ralph’s new vehicle could not climb a deep-snowed hill, but looking about at the plush interior… His grandfather would not have entered it without a shower.
As Wilson settled into his bucket seat, he could not conceive of climbing into such a vehicle covered with roofing tar, or sweat, or mud, or any of the various layers of construction grime. But these days the workmen, if they decided this sort of truck was ‘just their thing’… They leased the leather interiors designed for weekend warriors, and those in charge. Rarely could they own them. As for those lower down the totem pole, the apprentices who worked for Walshinksi… Well… new trucks? Even the leases cost too much. These guys roared about in little Hondas.
“You’re going to need to be neat with this one,” Wilson said. “Leather, stereo, expensive! I must be paying you too much!” Wilson tugged the visor. “Even the visor’s padded.” “Air bags too,” said Walshinksi. “And I selected heated seats.”
“That will make you feel like working in the winter. You’ll just sit in here and jabber on that cell phone,” says Wilson, noticing the cell phone has a holder sticking up from where the coffee cup should be. Grandfather’s trucks had not had coffee holders either. “Can we make a call?” “No reception here,” says Walshinksi. “It's spotty till we reach Petoskey.”
The two men are headed south to Beauville. Wilson has left the Anomie on Mackinac, similarly but with more preparation than Tim Stevens had left the Master Mind II in the same marina over a year before… His sloop now emptied, cleaned of any food that might rot, waiting, latched and locked and paid up for two weeks, floating calm, with extra spring lines set, secure in slip 19. This has taken some cajoling conversation with the Island’s Harbor Master. Because it is the end of the high season. Yachts are returning from the Canadian north and the Island is busy-busy, filled with skippers headed south, to fall and life and work. Idle empty boats, taking up necessary transient space, are inconvenient, frowned upon. It had taken Wilson, reminding the Harbor Master of post Mackinac race debauches, to negotiate the slip.
Ralph’s ‘new and shiny’ is refreshing by comparison, as Wilson remembers the year before, and being picked up by Dean. The air inside has that new car smell, an odor more pleasant than Dean’s old Toyota had carried that morning, over a year ago… Before the hole was even started.... Before Walshinksi had run the preliminary power…. When Chateau Daphne existed only as a mind’s eye image, a thought, an unknown known. Back when Tim Stevens still walked, costumed and alive, on planet earth! There are no barking dogs today. There is no Dean. There is no Jesus. There exist no imaginary halos. But like the year before, albeit in more comfort, Wilson is the passenger, but hearing not of God, and instead of emergency and the reasons for Feely’s call and Ralph’s search and summons… The two men rushing back to Beauville.
Wilson has been summoned to an event, another meeting. And he listens with first surprise and then concern, emotion shaping his face, gripping the corners of his mouth, juxtaposed to his widened rounding eyes as he learns of Pott’s perfidy… Of the padlocked house, the laid-off workers, the events, their planning…Indian Dick and Brown, Woodbine and the break-in, two days previous to put things right! And then of De Groot and Potts returning and shutting the building tight… Of Dick’s plan, and of Brown and Janet Wainwright, and of Daphne, Indian Dick and CNN and the relics, real and planted, unearthed by Indian Dick, and then of Bloom of Anthropology and the University of Michigan. “They have a plan, and he must listen.” As he questions Ralph, then cautiously, smiles and frowns, squints, then listens more.
“Relics,” Wilson laughs, his eyes darting with the comedy of it all, as he looks at Walshinksi, “Relics… Ha!... Indian Dick? I can see Dick first matter a fact, then chortling…” Then Wilson says, “But I’m confused… Padlocked how… Could you elaborate?”
Supposedly Lenin said, “There are decades where nothing happens, and there are weeks where decades happen.” And on a much smaller scale than Lenin’s, this describes Wilson’s recent days spent sailing. Because as you now are realizing, while he was gone, mendacity was in motion.
“It is Indian Dick you will have to thank.” Says Ralph. “He figured it out, and you will learn more at the meeting. But to put it simply… Dick said he warned you. Potts was about to join up with DeGroot, and you were about to be fired. And then you would have been fucked and all of us working for you, any of us with principles, would have been fucked too. Some might have stayed on working for Potts and DeGroot. I think he would have been able to keep the mason, the tile man, and Ransom, maybe a couple of your newer employees. But not me, not Woodbine, obviously not Dick, or Randy, Dean or Waltner, and most of the rest of the guys. Everyone would have been fucked and winter coming. That, but really concern for you, is why Dick came up with the relics. Dick’s your friend.
“I know.” Says Wilson.
“Dick’s the one who first called Feely,” continues Walshinksi. “The picture Potts painted for De Groot… We will never know. According to Feely, De Groot had the project in his grasp. But now, no longer. And that’s the result of Feely. The house remains locked, but an injunction has made certain that Daphne’s back in charge and she will be arriving later. And then, we are going to cut the locks that Potts and DeGroot put on the building… Woodbine and I broke in by cutting a hole in the sheathing… Both Potts and De Groot are history they’ve skedaddled.”
Yes, there is chaos calmed, and another Beauville happening underway today, and they must hurry. The event will start at noon or one or two, but soon, and so Walshinksi’s tires bang the strips of tar that section and define the failing Michigan roads during the final years of the 20th century… A thump, thump, thump, of crash and bang, constant as a metronome. Surprise awes Wilson's face as he learns and listens… that so much could have happened in so short a time. Incredulity at the unfolding story that Ralph describes, and the event that lays before him.
It is likely that DeGroot would have won… That today's gathering would have never happened without Indian Dick, without Janet Wainwright's 4th of July fete and celebration, without Honey Darling's screams and tears and rescue, and without CNN’s decision to return to fill their late summer plate… Without Beauville’s recent popularity. For the fumes of Beauville’s summer fame still linger. Remembered and reminded by and with Janet Wainwright’s call to the young editor who was in charge of story-Beauville, recently, the month before.
Summer on the wane, and football barely started. The nation had been silent. A lack of Big News combined with the media memory fumes of the past July had been the kicker, causing CNN to once again take notice and become alert to Janet Wainwright’s call.
“I have another story,” informing CNN, “You must return, there are unearthed Indian relics… And Bloom…Yes, not that Bloom, another famous Bloom, this Bloom from the University of Michigan… He has the finest PHDs, the head of Anthropology.”
And it will not be long before this very same Bloom will be explaining all and everything, transforming and lecturing anthropology and history, a new and temporary talking head on CNN, with his fifteen minutes of fame upon him.
“CNN’s onboard with this,” Janet announced to all.
The movers and shakers of Beauville, the banker Feely, the lawyer Smythe, 'Digger- Good works' Brown, these men have had a meeting. And they and the Beauvillians will all be gathering to preserve history, to save the land and water, to save the tragic Daphne whose husband had died just the year before.
CNN vaguely remembers the story, and now reminded by Janet Wainwright, the anchor will remind the mid-west and tell the nation of…The legend of the White Deer emerging from the morning mist, grown and growing, larger than a fish story. It does not hurt…for news… It is a tragic tale. The story of the pumping blood, the severed artery, and the death that followed only hours later, the end of a life in early afternoon. The finish of Tim Stevens… Man of vision, Burger Baron, about to make his final exchange of the brass ring for gold, a risen, newly emerging, Real and True Tycoon. And CNN has found a Faber.
And the handsome clone will allude to finance, while featuring a hunting pundit, Russell Rugged Gibbons, presenting once again events from Beauville, with Gibbons, an expert on the ways and wiles of the northern deer, costumed on the TV, as Tim Stevens might have been, clad everywhere in camo… a seen from field and stream, behind him.
CNN, day and night, saturated with Beauville, as its citizens combine to proclaim friendship and support for the tragic victim Daphne, the dead man’s wife, the owner of that new Abernathy of stone and chimneys. The great new house a-building and soon finished, on the point… a gathering to put things right, and to save Daphne and her house, and by extension Beauville. To save her from the past and the more recent crash, and to save themselves, and Wilson, too.
Yes, as the event and story grew once more… As gossip spread, suddenly, somehow, everyone, the entire town had known her… The citizens of Beauville, uniting as friends of Daphne, for the entire world to see, covered by CNN. Human interest ‘to beat the band’… After all, everyone has hurts and pain and problems, don’t they? Beauvillians, and the nation. They all have damage. And as if osmotic, they will hang their hurts and slights on Daphne's cause, as if her pain was their bunting tree, proclaiming… Her cause - Their cause. Her celebrity - their celebrity. Her lost love—Their lost love…Their value. The town united, CNN announcing and tourists returning for an added week or two, and money made when all had supposed it would be shut down. Money fleeting, short term, but there for now… Oh thank you CNN. Thank You notoriety.
But there is more. Behind it all. The story taps into centuries of wrongs and rightings. The Indian land… and once again the myth and making of America, steps center stage, with Bloom explaining, telling tales of Indian soil, old moccasins, and history. It is time to put things right and preserve the past, as even those who dislike Indians join, deciding to blame it all on Andrew Jackson… Beauvillians collecting big bucks, and the nation filled with a pre-football fall feel-good catharsis.
Trail of tears exposed and never more, it does not matter that Jackson’s Indians were different Indians. Indians from the Blue Ridge - Smokies. Cherokees, or Ojibwa, Chippewa. An Indian's an Indian. Remembered by others, most supportive, but some resentful too, those who see themselves as sportsmen, who dwell on stolen fish, and envied deer, and the Indian's right to hunt and fish whenever they wish. This permission, not a right, the sportsmen say, but falsely, from treaties court-resurrected in the seventies… confusion, conflict, and more gossip. All of this, and more, engulfs and becomes the sphere of time and place and memory that makes the moment.
It is exciting! It is amazing! It is momentous! Daphne's life and past becoming Beauville’s, and the nation’s too… A cause célèbre, another fifteen minutes of fame or maybe longer this time, lasting until the next mass shooting, or barring that, eventually the Big-Big Game and Football! With the big game arriving the third week of September this year, the teams-yet to be determined… Fame and a cause merging into Football… Television… The Big News Nation.
Wilson is heading into another fete, and a different sort of good deed doing. Hurrah for the forgotten Indians. The myth and make believe, the celebration of the first Thanksgiving on the horizon a few months distant. The timing is perfect for an Indian Triumph.
A meeting, a meeting, we're going to have a meeting… the tune pounds once again in his head, his demon conducting. Wilson stares, eyes round and wide, toward Walshinksi, speechless. And, as saliva spews from Walshinksi’s large lips…. He learns, he listens.
And certainly, without the crash, which was the engine of this event and change. Indian Dick’s desire to support Wilson combining with Janet Wainwright’s past despair at the new neighborhood next door, and Janet’s loss to Longbottom, a loss she might now win. Fate and fury, a second chance at victory.
All of this and the tragedy are the reasons Janet has adopted Daphne, deciding that underneath the rich Republican existed another slighted woman, another member of her sex, manipulated as they all were manipulated. By men. Months of horse-riding chats had swayed Janet and Janet and Daphne had somehow, oddly, bonded. So, when out of the blue of the spa Daphne had called despairing, Janet had been full of suggestions, and these combining with Margie’s had taken hold.
“Chin up girl! Kick those old men in the ass! Sell those damn burger joints, they're bad for mankind, their bad for cows, their bad for the digestion, and they're ugly.” Janet would not have mentioned methane then. It was the end of the 1990s and while Exxon knew of climate change, the people had not even begun to give a damn.
And… Almost there.
Walshinksi passes through Petoskey, “Twenty, twenty-five more minutes,” he says. “As if I did not know that,” replies Wilson… “I’ve been journeying up and down this road longer than you have. In summer as a child, and year-round more recently.”
“Just alerting, it’s conversation. And be advised, there may be chaos.”
Wilson says nothing. He is thinking, watching lake Michigan rolling with waves, curved crusting caps, spume, waves and water, in synch and also heading south, eroding the edge of the beach… white caps as far as the eye can see.
“I sure appreciate the lift, your care and watchfulness,” says Wilson, as Walshinksi nods.
As they bang on… Thumping to the asphalt patches. Until Walshinksi fanfares, “That was Bayshore. Ten more minutes. Be prepared. There may already be… Chaos underway.”
It is noon, and coming from the North, they are not troubled by the bridge, needing only to turn south onto the Boyd City Road. A half mile, then passing the road into Wilson’s house, another mile, and then turning west, a half mile more, until Wilson sees flags in the distance, the plastic sort that adorn big-event sales, or car lots, or old gas stations. Events of commerce, flapping in the breeze, next to a newer sort of winged display that also lines the road, curved and 3D rising, designed to rotate with the wind, vertical, tall and spinning. These two larger planted affairs proclaiming Chippewa directly in front of the Longbottom Estate’s newly constructed gatehouse, with an additional banner wing on the other side of the entrance spinning and displaying an M for the university of Michigan, Department of Anthropology.
In the southern distance, at the edge of the trees, you see Brown’s Camp Hope with its rising silo, and then a sign saying Long Bottom Estates defaced with random red where someone has painted Former in front of the initial L of Longbottom.
To the north, fifteen hundred feet distant, Chateau Daphne rises. Adjacent to the structure’s entrance drive, a small crowd mingles, builds and separates, reassembles and then enlarges, new folks arriving, others meandering about, a CNN truck with satellite on top, and a similar truck. This one splashed with blue and green and gold… The local big news mobile unit that will represent Joe Beauville.
Minutes later, after they have driven the loop, in and out and by, Wilson saying “wait,” as Walshinksi stops, and “wait," as he observes the crowd and the padlocked door. As Walshinksi replies too “Wait.” And then, “I need to talk to Feely, Smythe. Where are they? They were supposed to be here, waiting… Both of them.” Ralph dials his cell. “They are still in town,” he says. “Well, go…Go!” says Wilson. “Go… Now… Back to town and find them. Get out of here, before someone notices we’re here … Before these people see us,” Wilson points to the satellite news-vans.
“It's the new truck,” says Walshinksi. “No one recognizes it, and this one… I’ve not yet painted it… No signs, no labels… no Simply Shocking Service.” “You are going to do that to this?” replies Wilson… “Never mind, I don’t care…Go.”
“We’ve got the meeting,” says Ralph. “I guess I misunderstood… They’ll be waiting.”
Wilson faces Feely and the attorney Smythe, in Smythe's office.
“We’ve been on top of it. For You!” Says Feely. Smythe nods his head in agreement. “Your friends care, even if you don't. What were you doing? Giving up! Gone sailing!” Wilson shrugs, raises his eyebrows, appears confused. “No, not that. I just wanted to justify the boat, use the damn thing, and I did not see it… this… That. His hand points north east towards Longbottom Estates, miles distant across the harbor and then across the lake to the north-east shore of Lake Arnaud.
“I was escaping. Time to think, not giving up. I never saw this from Potts. Cortland, sure. I now see that it was possible… A sneak, a snake… But not my foreman! Not from Potts, how could he imagine he could finish…?” “Indian Dick told us he warned you.” Say Feely and Smythe, almost in unison. “He did, but Dick and Potts, oil and water, racist and Indian. Dick is always warning me about Potts. Has, for years.... You know, Wilson. I heard this… I heard that. Dick does not care for Potts, and the feeling is mutual. They hate each other once you scrape away civility.”
“He was right.” Says Feely. “Good thing we’ve been observant while you were playing… Your client.”
“Which one,” says Wilson.
“The only one left, unless you include the Dutchman,” says Feely. “Daphne, of course. And… Your headache's cause, your pain in the ass for the last year… She has joined your team, become your savior… It seems that somehow your Daphne has become a Beauvillian too. Janet Wainwright’s recent work, I think. Or at least, the lady has become Beauville's newest adopted rich folk, mascot project, for resurrected hope. Everyone likes a story. And no one wants your building just sitting out there, Tyvek flapping, unfinished… Even Longbottom.”
“The Tyvek’s 95% covered,” says Wilson.
“It’s an expression,” says Feely with exasperation. “And justified… It was flapping up a storm after he died, remember… All last winter!”
“Yeah, yeah, OK! But! Wainwright, Brown, who could have imagined them on the same team...?”
“They are doing it for you, you idiot, and your Ex, Grace, had something to do with that.
“They’re on your team now,” says Smythe. “Your team!... The whole town, for you and Daphne. Life is strange and strange bedfellows.” adds Smythe
“I watched,” says Wilson. “Saw the riding lessons, the companionship, the shift since Stevens passing… Some of it, anyway. I guess… It’s possible. Apparently, it must be!”
“Well, at the beginning of summer… I agree,” says Feely. “It would have seemed unlikely. But now. Let me paint a picture… Now, this moment. Daphne, Brown, and most of Beauville. Unless you include Longbottom and company. But the Indians, Janet Wainwright… Even that Bloom from Michigan... They are all working together. Bloom, the tribe, and Wainwright. At first, they all wanted to shut it down, then wait for the dust to settle. All of them! It was Dick that saved you. He convinced them otherwise! And since he rescued that girl, people listen. Especially when he shows up in the Tribal Cruiser, representing or people presuming he’s representing the Tribe. I listened. This was your Dick speaking, something like this and said better, with more force than I thought he could… The exposed unfinished house will twist and bend. Bare studs will harden, and jobs. Jobs, what about the workers? They will lose their jobs! Their families… Suffering. It could be a bad winter! And winter is coming! This and more, Dick convinced them.”
“And, we!” adds Smythe. “We carried the ball on your behalf. Feely and I. We road that energy all the way to Grand Rapids.”
“And long story short,” continues Feely. “Relics found, planted and found by Dick and now Bloom has discovered more - he says authentic, the development is halted, Longbottom is having a fit, but except for finishing your project, and the town has rallied behind Daphne, and the feeling is why not a preserve? The whole Pointe, except for Daphne’s, your McMansion.”
“Don’t call it that,” says Wilson. “It’s better than that.”
“See, you like it! I said he did, didn’t I?” Feely turns to Smythe. “Anyway, the losers are your Potts and Cortland.”
“And,” continues Smythe, “Daphne’s bank is onboard. I told Van Worden, the president, about the mess he was about to get into. I guaranteed it!”
“And that is what today is about,” says Feely. “Indians, Daphne, you, and Janet’s planning another fete.
“The only deal is you must hire as many Indians subs as are out there to finish,” adds Smythe.
“Yeah,” says, Wilson. “Ok, if they are good. I already use Wabanimki for painting. But the plumber, the drywaller, electrician, and my marble man, they must remain. But sure, I can let Dick run with that… He can suggest them.”
“But the house is locked up tight as a drum,” says Wilson. “Not to worry,” says Smythe.
“Not for long,” says Feely. “Daphne is coming up this afternoon, her ownership renewed and sanctified. She will cut the chains and everyone will be applauding. It will be like the cutting of the red ribbon. And… You will be famous for designing mansions.”
“Jesus,” says Wilson. “It is only in the last few months that I have grown to like the place… even if it’s not my style.”
“But it is going to be,” says Feely. “You may never sell a contemporary design again!”
“I Quit,” says Wilson. “I Quit! But not until this project is finished.”
“Now, you think so, maybe… But you won’t,” says Feely. “Your crew will need work, Dick will need work, and in the future, you will be fighting different battles. The architects who copy old will be coming after you now. That Wright from Petoskey. You already stepped on his toes with this one.” “New enemies,” says Smythe, “And old.” “Burtelsby and Wright, they will want your business,” says Feely.” “Who cares,” says Smythe. “That's money in my pocket… In the future.” Wilson observes the office, the two men, his friends speaking of him, about how the event is transcending his life and influencing others, including his lawyer and banker. Once again, he recalls his Austin-Healy, as his demon laughs.
And with this the three men leave Smythe’s office and wander out to boulevard down the street until they find their vehicles, until they wait for the rising-falling bridge and then head out to the new incarnation - Longbottom Estates- morphed and transformed into a project of The Chippewa- Daphne…, In memory of Stevens-Brown-Charities… A division of Camp Hope? The name is yet uncertain.
In two short weeks, reality has both remained the same and shifted. Beauville, Wilson, Brown, and all its citizens. History’s cauldron has been boiling a long time, and in this case, it has been days, weeks, years, centuries. The past, of course, is the real red carpet for the day’s activity. Today’s new metaphorical unrolling yards of carpet are new and fresh, only a small bit of history’s cylinder, rolling long and wide, back into the centuries.
Beauville has rallied to save Daphne, to save the land, to save Indian Dick, and in the process Wilson. Everyone but the oversized Dutchman and Longbottom.
And Longbottom, is playing the only card he has left… The long card. He has no choice but to support, if nothing else, the finish of Chateau Daphne… Hoping that the Tribe will need some money in the future and let him back in with more lots and more development… An Indian Golf Course… He may hope. Longbottom ponders, aware that life is strange and long while mankind and deals are fickle. It is his only play.