An hour later, Irita had dragged Mesa to Stodden Park to observe the passing of summer, Butte style. “Come on, it’s the Labor Day picnic. You gotta eat,” Irita said while they waited in the chow line where the mayor and several city commissioners were dosing the crowd with baked beans, potato salad, and hotdogs.
“One hotdog won’t kill you,” Irita said, “even if they were donated by Terminal Meats.” Mesa smiled and hoped the owners of Butte’s oldest butcher and wild-game processing store weren’t within hearing distance.
The last time she had attended a Labor Day picnic, her mother had been alive. They had spent the afternoon sunbathing at the swimming pool on one of the rare, truly hot summer days. Her mother had been so happy to be back in Butte.
“You’ll meet some new people, maybe see some old friends, and get heartburn,” Irita said. “It’s what neighborhood news is all about.”
In the span of twenty minutes, Irita had introduced her to every other person in Stodden Park. Locals of all ages basked in the warm sunshine, playing Frisbee, drinking Bud Lite, and otherwise trying to ignore the speakers at the mike.
The stock-in-trade for the labor unions that had once held sway in Butte, political promises nowadays seemed to fall on deaf ears. Shabby and thin on the ground, much of what she saw spoke of little money and hard times. Butte was ten percent romantic notion and ninety per cent grim reality. Now that the mines were closed, the sponsors of the picnic had dwindled, but the number of hungry mouths had grown, and filling them was everyone’s priority.
Irita and Mesa waded through a sea of picnickers, babies on blankets and elderly people in lawn chairs. They perched themselves on one side of the brick foundation of the Korean War Memorial.
Mesa gazed up at the idealized, larger-than-life bronze sculpture of an infantryman. Montanans had a proud history of serving their country, including her own father, whose career choice he readily admitted was partly the result of the state’s notorious lack of decent, steady employment. Unlike her father, she suspected her views on international relations were decidedly left of many Montanans, even in Butte, which was the state’s Democratic stronghold.
Mesa felt the gentle nudge of an elbow into her side. “Stop thinking and eat,” Irita said, her mouth full of hotdog oozing with mustard, ketchup, and sauerkraut. She was ready for bite number two when a woman about thirty appeared with two kids in tow. Both children broke free, calling “Grammy, Grammy.”
Irita eagerly traded her plate of food for children and smothered them with hugs. Their mother quickly intervened. “Let Grammy eat,” she said gently. Lean and graceful with long dark hair, the woman apologized for interrupting.
Mesa blushed as Irita introduced her as the new boss and was surprised to find that the other woman, Kathy DiNunzio, was Irita’s daughter-in-law. Kathy smiled warmly and stepped aside. A taller male version, with more muscle but without the smile, nodded. “You remember Garrett, my brother,” Kathy said, her voice slightly too enthusiastic. “He’s on leave.”
Irita stood up and said, “Sure do. Sorry I didn’t get to wish you bon voyage before your trip to Kandahar. Welcome home.”
That explained the short haircut, Mesa thought as Irita introduced him by saying he lived in Billings but was now in the Army National Guard. He mumbled a greeting and then stood by stoically, not unlike the statue in front of the memorial. His gaze indirect, he waited without a word while his sister chatted easily with Irita.
Mesa, feeling vaguely uncomfortable, searched for something innocuous to say. She had met plenty of airmen in her day but no one who had served in the more recent deployments to the Middle East. For sure, she hadn’t met any recently returned, frontline soldiers, which somehow she knew he was. “I haven’t met anybody who’s been in Afghanistan,” she said.
He looked up at her, his brow thick. His hazel eyes filled with a weariness that made her want to hug him. “It’s all right,” he said almost apologetically, as if he understood what she felt.
She didn’t think conversation about American foreign policy was appropriate. Especially to this soldier who seemed uneasy, not like the ones that made the cover of Time and Newsweek. Finally, she said, “I’m sorry for the trouble we’ve put you to.” She felt strangely inarticulate, but she knew she would have regretted saying nothing, letting the moment pass.
When he spoke again, his voice was raspy, as if he had spent the previous day shouting orders nonstop. “I’m sorry too.” Then he retreated to the number one question in every Montanan’s mind. “How about this weather?” he said with the tiniest hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth.
Before she could answer, the kids tugged at him, each pulling on a different finger of his large hand. He clapped his free hand to his shoulder and held it, feigning injury. The children laughed, and then pleaded with him to take them to the swings. The trace of a smile crept across his face, and he said goodbye to her. Then he turned and quietly followed the children, who were already skipping toward the colorful jungle gym. She watched him walk away and wondered what horrors he had seen or perhaps committed so far from home.
She thought about her dad who, contrary to his military career—he would say because of it—had taught her long ago that no soldier wants to go to war. They always argued about the so-called all-volunteer army. She thought everybody should serve and then politicians would be less likely to send their own kids off to war.
Her dad believed some men, and maybe some women, although he still wasn’t entirely sure about that, were more suited to combat than others were. He had no illusions about the fact that, despite all the expensive technological advances, soldiers on the ground were still a necessity. Mesa’s reply was that it was too bad more people didn’t discover their lack of a temperament for battle before getting sent into one.
Mesa turned toward the makeshift stage by the outfield fence of the softball field. She tried in earnest to pay attention to the congressional candidate, a mint farmer from Kalispell, who was assailing the crowd with the faults of his Republican opponent. Standing several feet behind the mike, and apparently waiting to speak, Mesa saw Shane Northey.
Irita was deep in conversation with Kathy and Mesa thought about going up to say hello. He had a pleasant, clean-cut look to him, dress shirt and jeans again. She wasn’t immune to attraction, short-term as it might be. A quick smile accompanied his ready handshakes with others on the stage. He turned his attention to the speaker, and so did she. Predictably, the Democrat needled the Republicans, demanding better-paying jobs and attention to health care reform—not that she didn’t agree.
Mesa turned when she heard her name being called in an unmistakable, high-pitched voice. Tara McTeague came hurtling precariously toward her in toeless, cork-wedged sandals. On her hip rode Kelly, her blue-eyed, blonde-haired daughter, an exact image of her mother. Connor, an almost identical little boy, tottered along, pulling on his mother’s hand. Mesa embraced as many of the trio as she could, having only seen photos of the twins previously.
“When did you get in and what is going on?” Tara asked over her shoulder with mock indignation as Connor immediately began herding them toward the giant jungle gym with remarkable determination for a two-year-old. “Chance wants me to look for a place for you, and the last email you sent said you were thinking about moving to Portland.”
Tara was her usual whirlwind self, juggling several pieces of life at once. Married and the mother of twins right out of the shoot, and now she was pregnant with a third. Their lives were completely different, but Mesa had learned long ago that she could always count on Tara to keep her mouth shut. “God, my butt’s really in a sling this time.”
“What a shocker,” Tara said with gentle sarcasm. “Tell me everything.” If life was too full for Tara, she didn’t show it. She still had a wide grin and time to offer a ready opinion about the guys who found their way into Mesa’s life.
“Remember Derek Immelmann?”
“Your boss that you had the hots for all this time?” Tara’s voice brimmed with anticipation.
Mesa nodded. “He quit and moved to Oregon at the end of June to work for Pacifica Magazine.”
“Never heard of it,” Tara said.
Pacifica was the most progressive magazine on the west coast, but social commentary wasn’t Tara’s strong suit. “It’s a cool magazine, and it pays well,” Mesa said.
“So what are you doing here?” Tara asked while depositing Kelly and Connor on the bump slide on the jungle gym. “You and Derek got together before he left, right?” Tara said with a smile.
Mesa nodded. It had been two weeks of nonstop sex, usually fueled by too many beers after endless late nights at the Current. “I said I’d follow him anywhere, which may have been a slight exaggeration.”
“The sex really wasn’t that good?” Tara asked.
Mesa shrugged. “About as good as my timing.”
“I know I’m not Einstein,” Tara said, “but I still don’t see the problem.”
“The day after Derek left, Chance began his campaign to get me to run the Messenger until Nan’s back on her feet. Now that I’m finally here, Derek wants me to come to Portland. He submitted my resume for a job that’s come open, and I fly in for an interview on Friday.”
“Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” Tara said.
“You’re telling me. He’s the hard-drinking, married-to-the-job type,” Mesa said. “But the job screams real potential. I’m just not sure how I’m going to explain the change in plans to Chance.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve kept your options open because you’ll never guess which old heartbreaker is back in town, and headed right this way.”
Mesa tried to ignore the slight increase of her heartbeat. Then she turned to look straight into the eyes of Hardy Jacobs.
“How’s she going?” he said to them both. Then to Mesa he murmured, “I heard you were back in town.”
Brown hair tipped blond, no doubt by a summer of biking all over southern Utah, framed Hardy’s youthful good looks and blue-green eyes. He looked like he belonged in one of those Ralph Lauren ads in Rolling Stone magazine.
“Not too bad,” Tara said. “How ‘bout yourself?” she said and nodded toward his foot.
“Ended up on the wrong side of some reckless slick-rocker who should have been walking instead of riding.” Hardy held up a bandaged left ankle. “Twisted it a bit.”
“Can I get either of you ladies a drink?” He held up an empty Mountain Dew can. “Time for another. Don’t you move,” he said to Mesa. “Be right back.”
Tara and Mesa watched him hobble toward the drinks tent, each waiting until he was out of hearing distance. Tara was the first to react.
“Oh my God. He is too smooth. He acts like he just saw you yesterday. How long has it been?”
“Your birthday party at the McQueen.” Christmas four years ago, the last time Mesa had been in Butte. Hardy had shown up halfway through the evening, fresh from a weekend’s work as a snowboard instructor at Big Sky. Tan and buff as ever, he looked half his age dressed in baggy ski pants and a long-sleeved tee shirt advertising some brand of snowboard. A stocking cap completed his ensemble, with errant wisps of hair peeking out at the ears and neck.
“Oh yeah, now I remember. Didn’t you hook up with him and take off to Big Sky? I was so bummed. I hardly saw you at all that Christmas.”
After a few quick beers, she and Hardy had drifted together, reminiscing about old times. One thing led to another. How could she blame herself when the next day she had gone to Big Sky and stayed the weekend at the cabin Hardy shared with two other ski bums? They had pledged seriously to see each other again soon. At least Mesa thought they were serious.
She had returned to her job at the Current with perma-grin. Then, in the next four years, she had received exactly two postcards from Hardy, who spent May through October working for an outfitter in southern Utah, and continued to winter in Big Sky.
“Good thing he never misses any free food, or it might be another four before you see him again.”
The two women stood next to the ladder of the slide, helping Kelly and Connor. “Tara, don’t get evil on me. We had a lot of good times together.”
“If you can call watching baseball all summer a good time.”
A decade ago, Hardy breathed baseball, playing shortstop for the Miners—Butte’s double A American Legion team. With a handful of other female fans, Mesa and Tara had spent the summer pretending to be devoted to the great American pastime.
“Excuse me, did you or did you not meet your husband while he was playing third base for the Helena Saints?” Mesa countered.
Those were the days when ball players and fans alike drank beer at the Vu Villa. The closest bar to the baseball field, the team, and their followers naturally gravitated to the Vu, drinking til midnight if they lost, til closing if they won.
Hardy’s older brother lived in an apartment on Park Street where they invariably crashed afterward. Mesa often snuck home in the pre-dawn, barely able to get a few hours’ sleep before work at the paper the next day. No easy feat in her grandmother’s creaky, old Victorian house.
She knew Hardy took a lot of grief from his teammates when he would walk her the six blocks home from the bar. But she had fond memories of those long summer evenings when they would walk hand in hand down Platinum Street, when neither had a care in the world.
* * *
“Jesus H. Christ, if it’s not one thing, it’s another,” Irita said. She sat back down next to Mesa, who had retreated to the war memorial when Tara had decided to take the twins home for their nap, and Hardy had gone off to talk baseball with an old teammate.
“Anything newsworthy?” Mesa asked, resisting the instinct to look for bad news.
“Not for the moment,” Irita said and picked up her cold hotdog.
“I had no idea you had grown children,” Mesa said with a smile, “and grandchildren, too?”
“Why, thank you,” Irita said. “Aren’t they adorable?”
Mesa looked over at the playground where she could still see the little girl being pushed in a swing by her Uncle Garrett, who was now accompanied by a blonde woman in blue jeans and a western shirt. She looked familiar, and though Mesa couldn’t remember her name, she felt reassured by the woman’s presence. That soldier needed some TLC.
“So, what’s the problem?” Mesa probed while Irita attacked the rest of her hotdog.
Irita sighed and looked around as if she wanted to be sure no one overheard. “Turns out Garrett was supposed to report back to his unit already. His sergeant called Kathy, as next of kin, this morning looking for him and to say if Garrett’s not back in 48 hours, he’ll be AWOL. So, naturally, she told his sergeant she didn’t know where Garrett was. She wasn’t going to rat out her own brother, at least not ’til she talked to him first.”
“What’s the brother say?” Mesa asked, marginally surprised to hear that Garrett was not looking forward to a return to duty.
“Well, that’s part of the problem. Apparently, he’s wound tighter than the inside of a golf ball. Hasn’t slept a wink lately and isn’t eating or talking much either.”
Mesa looked at Garrett, who did seem to take a more-than-passing interest in those around him—maybe a touch of paranoia. Of course, from the way the Army operated recently, people really were after him or would be shortly.
“What happens to somebody who goes AWOL these days?” Irita asked half out loud.
“I think they stopped shooting deserters after World War II,” Mesa said, trying not to sound sarcastic. She had a long enough association with the Air Force to understand the gravity of regulations, though her father had never broken any, at least not to her knowledge. “Maybe they send you back to the frontlines, although I’m not sure if they know where that is in the Middle East anymore. I think you have to be gone for a while before they consider it desertion.”
“I’m surprised to hear he’d pull a stunt like that,” Irita said. They were both watching him swinging his niece. “He’s not a bad guy. The kids idolize him. Before Afghanistan, he was talking about going into business for himself.
“I told Kathy I’d ask around. See what she can do to help him get back into the good graces of the Army.”
“What did he do in Afghanistan?” Mesa asked.
“Drove a truck is all, as far as I know. But I did hear he had some buddies blown up by one of those roadside bombs a week after they were deployed. Kathy says he never talks about it. She heard about it from a friend who read it in the Billings Gazette.”
“Well, I think you better tell him the Army called.”
“That’s what I said, but Kathy’s afraid he might do something drastic.”
“Sounds like he already has.”