It was a long day’s trip to Willow and it was getting dark by the time Artie drove into town. He hadn’t bothered to pack anything—just stopped at an ATM to pick up several hundred dollars, then hit the road. He could buy a toothbrush when he got there and rinse his shorts out in the sink at some motel.
He’d never been close to Susan’s parents, Harold and Sharon Albright. They’d been at the wedding, but they’d been openly hostile to him and he’d never visited them. For whatever reason, they hadn’t approved of the marriage and made it plain they didn’t care to see much of him. He’d obliged them, and Susan had taken care of the parental obligations, remembering them at Christmas and sending out birthday cards, calling occasionally, though Artie couldn’t remember any time when they had called until the week or so ago when Susan’s mother had phoned to say her father wasn’t doing well. They had never sent cards or presents, not even at Christmas, not even to Mark.
Chalk one up for Mark: he’d never complained about them. Occasionally when Susan had visited them she had taken Mark along, but Mark never had much to say about them afterward. Probably out of deference to him.
Willow was a little town of a thousand at the foot of the Cascades. A Motel 6 on the outskirts, then a three-block-long Main Street with a clothing store and two small restaurants, a combination gift shop and bookstore, a small grocery plus some shops catering to occasional tourists.
Artie glanced at his watch—almost dinnertime. But if he showed up at the Albrights in time to eat, he knew damned well Susan’s mother would be annoyed.
He parked in front of a little restaurant that had red-checked curtains in the window. The cold evening air cut through his thin jacket and half a foot of snow crunched under his shoes when he got out of the car. He should have taken the time at least to grab a sweater before leaving.
Inside, the restaurant was small but spotless, with half a dozen tables and a counter with eight stools. Only one of them was occupied—an old man reading a copy of what looked like the county weekly. Two teenagers were in back playing a pinball machine, and a middle-aged couple with two kids sat at a table along the side.
It looked very comfortable, very cozy.
Artie picked a table close to the front door. They probably didn’t have much business this time of year, so there wouldn’t be a draft with people running in and out. The table was covered with oilcloth that matched the curtains, the menu neatly typed and inserted in a little clip holder that also held an ad for Budweiser.
It was the little things that counted, Artie thought. The ketchup and mustard bottles were full, the tops carefully wiped off. And there were no signs of the previous diner on the oilcloth. It was a high-class establishment for a small town.
“Hi, stranger. What can I get you?”
She was chubby and smiling, midthirties, hair done up in a loose bun, wearing a spotless white apron and
holding a little notepad, ready for his order.
Artie looked at the menu without really seeing it. “Any recommendations?”
“Everything’s good.” She pointed to one of the items. “I had the ham and sweets earlier this evening. The green beans are frozen but the biscuits and gravy were made tonight.” Another smile. “Try the apple pie for dessert—my mother bakes it special.”
“You own the place?”
“Me and Terry—he works the kitchen, I wait the tables. Good division of labor.”
Artie had glimpsed a thickset man in a white apron in the kitchen just off the dining area. He’d caught Artie’s eye when he came in, flashed a smile, then went back to his stove.
Friendly town, even the dogs were friendly. A shaggy collie lying on the floor at the far end of the counter had eyed him when he first came in, then went back to dozing.
The waitress left a copy of the paper for him to read while he waited, and Artie leafed through it. The usual small-town board meetings, apparently centering around getting prepared for a sudden influx of visitors. It didn’t say why or when, but then small towns probably spent most of the winter getting ready for the rest of the year unless they were ski resorts.
The ham and sweet potatoes were the best Artie ever had—the hogs were raised on a farm just down the pike, the waitress said, and the farmer did his own slaughtering. The biscuits and gravy melted in his mouth, and the cook had even done something special to the beans. The apple pie was superb, and Artie ordered another slice, which he couldn’t quite finish.
When he had finished the meal, he felt stuffed. There was nothing he wanted more than to go back to the motel and collapse on the bed—except one thing: to see Susan and Mark.
He dawdled over his coffee and stared around the
restaurant again. The kids in back were still going at it, the old man at the counter had been replaced by two giggling girls of high school age, and the middle-aged couple and their two kids had been exchanged for a younger family with a baby in a high chair.
Middle America, Artie thought.
Norman Rockwell country.
He paid his check, then just before leaving turned to the waitress and asked, “Do you have a hospital in town?”
She looked alarmed. “You sick?”
“Just wanting to check on a friend.”
“We’re kind of small for a hospital. Doc Ryan has something of a clinic—two or three beds—his wife helps out as his nurse. But that’s the closest we come. Anything really serious, LifeFlight flies them to Redding or Eureka or some bigger town, depending on what’s wrong.” She looked dubious. “I didn’t know Doc had an overnighter but you can never tell, I guess.”
He hadn’t really expected there would be a hospital in Willow. When he’d called they had told him there was only a clinic and old man Albright wasn’t there. He’d hoped there had been a mistake and now it looked like there wasn’t. Maybe Willow was a dry hole after all.
“We had one last year—young tourist girl was lost in the brush. It was three days before they found her and she was suffering from exposure pretty bad. I think they flew her to Redding for treatment.”
Artie got the doctor’s address, then went outside and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, filling his lungs with the chill night air.
Beautiful little town. He should have found an excuse to come up with Susan more often; the hell with her parents.
He started for his car, then glanced back at the restaurant. Not a gourmet’s paradise, but some of the best food he’d had in years. He could see through the windows
that the boys in back were still playing pinball, the young couple were spoon-feeding the baby, and the girls at the counter had their heads together in animated conversation.
Norman Rockwell country all right.
Kids in the city playing pinball wouldn’t be nearly that quiet and well behaved.
The Albright home was a small, white clapboard house with a neatly tended lawn in front, familiar from the photographs Susan had shown him. Even in the dusk Artie could see it was well kept up. An old black Chevy in the driveway, a swing on the front porch, doghouse to the side.
The porch light was on and so were lights in the living room. Artie took a deep breath, got out of the car, and crunched through the snow to the door. It opened on the second ring.
“Yes?”
The man who answered certainly wasn’t Harold Albright. He was twenty years too young and twenty pounds too thin. And friendly. He was still holding the paper he’d been reading and looked at Artie expectantly.
“I was looking for the Albrights,” Artie said, expecting to be told that the whole family was up in Eureka or Redding because of the old man’s illness and friends were house-sitting for him.
The man in the doorway looked apologetic.
“Sorry, but nobody by that name lives here, Mister.”
Artie stared at him, not sure what to say.
“They … used to some years back.” He hesitated, uncertain. “You have any idea where they might have gone?”
Somewhere in the house behind him a woman’s voice said reprovingly, “Ask him in, Tom. It’s cold out there—he’ll catch his death.”
The man opened the door wider.
“Come on in. No sense letting all the heat out.”
Artie carefully wiped his shoes on the doormat. On the inside, the house had all the warm, rustic appeal of a country bed-and-breakfast. A slender woman in her forties was sitting on the couch knitting. She looked up at him over the tops of her glasses, then stood up, waiting to be introduced.
“My wife, Maude.” Her husband turned his head slightly. “Maudie, our friend here is looking for the Albrights. You ever heard of them? Apparently they used to live in this house.”
She shook her head, frowning and trying to look helpful at the same time. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”
The man turned back to Artie and shrugged. “We bought the place seven years ago from the MacDougalls. Got no idea who owned it before them.” Still friendly but curious, “Why you looking for the Albrights?”
“I’m married to one of them—their daughter. She came up to visit them and I said I’d follow on the weekend.” Artie started to back away toward the door. “Must have got the address wrong.”
“Sorry, Mister.” He looked genuinely regretful when he said it. “Ask at the gas station just out of town—they usually know where everybody lives.”
He should have asked the waitress, Artie thought. She would’ve known. But then he had an even better source of information: the doctor.
In the door, Artie paused and said, “Thanks—thanks a lot.” He turned and trudged back to his car. Friendly couple, but for a small town you would have expected them to have asked more questions, or else to have been curt and slammed the door in his face.
The doctor looked like he might have stepped out of an old Marcus Welby television show, white-haired, late sixties, ruddy-cheeked. And, like everybody
else Artie had met, he went out of his way to be friendly and helpful.
“Hal Albright in the hospital?” He looked mystified. “I didn’t even know the old coot was sick. Who told you that?”
He invited Artie into the living room, one with lace curtains and old, dark oak furniture whose legs had been carved or decorated. A lamp with a beaded fringe stood guard over the ancient rolltop desk and there were lace doilies on the arms of the big easy chair the doctor sat in and on those of the couch.
“My wife—I’m married to their daughter. Her mother called up and said that Hal was in a bad way, that he was in the hospital.”
The doctor squinted at him, suddenly making the connection. “You’re the fella who called, aren’t cha?” Artie nodded. “Well, if Hal was in a bad way, he sure wasn’t here then. Most serious thing I’ve handled aside from births and emergencies was an appendectomy with Liz handling the anesthesia.” He turned and hollered to his wife in the kitchen. “Lizzie, that coffee ready yet?” Then back to Artie. “Your wife say what was wrong with him?”
Artie shook his head. “It was a short conversation. She sounded under a lot of stress. Maybe it was something the doctors hadn’t diagnosed yet.”
The doctor motioned him to a chair. “How’s Susan? I haven’t seen her in a coon’s age. I remember when she was a little girl, all pigtails and energy.”
Artie stared at him. Susan had gone up there, but the doctor, who should know everything in town, hadn’t seen her or even heard she was around. Something was falling apart, Artie thought. If her father was as sick as Susan had implied, they would have airlifted him out to a hospital in a bigger town. Maybe Susan had called from a nearby city—one with a hospital—and just forgotten to tell him. But Mark would certainly have checked with her, would have known where
she was. He wouldn’t have driven all the way to Willow for nothing.
“I haven’t seen her father in years,” Artie said slowly. “We never got along very well; I never came with her when she visited him. I went to the address I had and they’re not there. The couple in the house had never heard of them.”
The doctor frowned.
“Your wife never told you her folks had moved or where to?”
Liz bustled in from the kitchen with coffee and a small plate with slices of coffee cake on it. “Thanks, Lizzie.” They sipped their coffee in silence until she retreated to the kitchen.
“Sounds like you and your wife are having a bit of trouble.” Ryan shook his head. “Not my business, of course.”
“We’re thinking of divorce,” Artie said, surprised how painful it sounded when he mentioned it aloud. “That’s what I drove up to see her about.”
“Divorce.” The doctor concentrated on his coffee cake. “Bad business, divorce.”
“You know where they moved to?” Artie asked.
The doctor looked at him shrewdly.
“I’m taking a lot on faith, young man. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“If you know their phone number, you could call them,” Artie suggested. “Talk to Susan.”
“I suppose I could do that.” Ryan put down his coffee cake and walked to the phone on the desk and dialed. He waited for a long minute, then finally hung up. “Out of luck, young fella, just the damned machine. Nobody’s home, or else they’re not answering, which would be unusual for these parts.”
“I need to see her,” Artie said desperately.
The doctor hesitated, then said, “Let me see your driver’s license.”
Artie pulled it out and the doctor checked it over,
squinting at Artie to see if he matched the photograph. He wrote some information on a piece of paper.
“Just in case anything happens, the state police will know who to look for. Sorry if all this seems unfriendly, but all I’ve got is your word and I don’t know you from Adam.” He scribbled something on another piece of paper and gave it to Artie.
“The Albrights moved out of town, oh, I’d say ten years or more ago. Didn’t ask why, they never told me—but Hal just never got along with people. Their place is back in the woods a ways, five miles out on Route 89. A little county road connects just about there. There’s a white mailbox at the front of the driveway, can’t miss it. They’re about a hundred feet in, sort of a fancy log-cabin affair.”
Artie stood up, tucking the piece of paper in his pocket.
“Thanks a lot, Doctor.”
Ryan clapped him on the shoulder.
“Glad to help, son—sorry if I came across as too suspicious. Try and talk your wife out of that divorce—only people who benefit are the lawyers.”
Artie left and drove slowly through the few blocks of the business district. A sweet shoppe—they even spelled it with two “p”s—with three or four cars out front, the type his father used to call jalopies. Young kids huddled in the booths, and Artie could hear music blaring from the jukebox but no rock, no rap. The residential part of town was a few blocks of old wooden houses with porches and dormers and big lawns, now covered with snow. There was a small brick schoolhouse, and right before the town ended and the woods began, a classic white painted church with a tall steeple and a cross silhouetted against the starlit sky.
Artie was on a slight rise and pulled over to the side of the road, stopping to look back. The perfect dinner in the perfect small-town restaurant with perfect small-town customers. The motherly waitress, the friendly
cook, the well-behaved kids playing the pinball machine, the friendly couple who didn’t know where the Albrights had gone and were genuinely sorry they didn’t know, the country doctor right out of central casting.
A small village on a starry night, the snow softly falling, holiday lights twinkling in the windows below. It could have been the model for a Hallmark Christmas card.
A village right out of the nostalgic past with people to match, everybody in costume and playing their parts, like the characters at Disneyland.
If you were driving up Highway One along the coast, Willow might not have looked out of place next to Carmel or Mendocino, pretty little towns overrun with cars and noisy kids and chockablock with tourist traps. But inland, you got a different type of small town. Old working towns with an ancient grain elevator or lumbermill and the occasional dilapidated tractor sitting in a farmer’s front yard, roadhouses with a dozen pickups and beat-up cars parked out front with large furry dice or small plastic skeletons jiggling in the rear window.
In the back of Artie’s head a flag went up.
Willow was too good to be true. It was in the wrong place to be what it seemed to be—a picture-perfect tourist town—when there was no lake or mountain or seashore nearby to draw the tourists.
What was the old expression? A Potemkin village: one of the fake villages that Catherine the Great’s lover built along the roads she traveled so she would never see the poverty of the peasants.
Willow was a Potemkin village.
A few days ago somebody had given him a guided tour of the Old People in the city. But they were in the country, too.
In one sense, Willow wasn’t a village at all.
It was a nest.
A nest of the Old People.
And then he took one last look and changed his mind. It was probably an experimental village by, of, and for the Old People. An example of what the whole world could have been like if Homo sapiens hadn’t fucked it up.