Jalesville, MT - July 2013
The drive southwest through Minnesota and North Dakota had been endless, but as of three in the afternoon I had cleared the Montana state line and felt a rush of adrenaline, reenergizing me. Aunt Jilly’s old Honda ran like a champ but didn’t have air-conditioning, or so much as a CD player. I’d made do with the radio and Mom’s dusty shoebox of old cassette tapes from the 1980s, which she had laughingly lent me for the drive.
At the café this morning, I had held tightly to my sisters, Clint, my mother; Grandma and Aunt Ellen had each kissed my forehead. I promised that I would sneak back to Minnesota before I returned to Chicago this fall. I had directions to the Rawleys’ house for this evening; they were expecting me for dinner, and then Clark would show me to my apartment, which I had found on Google Earth before leaving Minnesota. It was just outside of Jalesville, perhaps five minutes from downtown, a newer apartment building called Stone Creek, constructed of beige stucco and appearing to sit smack in the center of a forest of Christmas trees. The view from my laptop had shown mountains in the distance, sending an unexpected and distinct thrill through me.
Even now, having driven through Miles City under the late afternoon sun, I was unexpectedly moved by the scenery flashing by out the window. The foothills, that’s what Camille had called the rock formations in this area, towering and odd, gorgeous and mysterious, painted with infinite colors of brown. I marveled that I had ever found brown a plain color; the sunlight tinted it into shades as dazzling and varied as the nail polish selection at Lanny’s favorite salon. I giggled at myself for comparing one to the other.
What I had a harder time acknowledging was the stirring in my soul. The scent in the air, the wildness of the landscape, the sense of something untamed in the air, beyond my control. I was a control freak, by nature, and found this sensation both exhilarating and startling. I didn’t so much welcome it as I did recognize it; I thought, The country here doesn’t care for you at all. It’s utterly impassive. Somehow I had never felt this way, even in Landon; there, the tall trees that ringed the lake and whispered in the wind offered a distinct sense of comfort. Here, there was none of that.
I crossed over from Custer to Rosebud County in the early evening, pulling into a gas station to refuel and attempt to calm my fluttering nerves. I was really not much more than an acquaintance to the Rawleys, and had never been around them without the rest of my own family nearby. Would it be awkward as hell? What would we have to talk about? Was I too underdressed to greet them? Pumping gas, I tipped to examine my travel outfit – jean shorts, a faded black tank top, black flip-flops. Chipped orange toenail polish, zero make-up. My long hair in a sloppy ponytail.
It’s all right, I reassured myself. You’re just fine. You’ve been on the road. They’re hardly judgmental. You may not look it right now, but you’re a graduate of Northwestern Law, soon to be employed in a top Chicago firm.
Just as I formed a mental picture of the impressive main lobby at Turnbull and Hinckley, my eyes drifted up towards the Montana sky, stretching endlessly above the little gas station. I blinked, not quite able to reconcile the sight before my eyes with the one in my brain. The sky was laced with fair-weather clouds as the sun drifted slowly westward, warm with tones of both blue and honey-gold. I felt a breath of wind against my cheek, and the law firm in my mind dissipated.
You’ll have the rest of your life to think about Turnbull and Hinckley, I reminded myself. For now I breathed deeply the scent in the air, something spicy, invigorating. I felt a rush of belonging, oddly, just before the gas pump clunked, signaling that my tank was full.
No more than ten minutes later I braked on the interstate, seeing the sign for the Jalesville exit, three miles away. My heart took up a rapid thundering, increasing my blood pressure exponentially; I was used to this anxious rush – hadn’t I just spent the last three years in law school? Though this anxiety was tinged with excitement as I slowed the Honda on the exit ramp. Billy Idol was singing on the tape deck and I giggled then, taking the left turn on the road into town to the tune of “Rebel Yell.” Jalesville itself appeared on the horizon moments later as I descended a steep hill, the landscape on either side reminding me of old movies, the kind about wagon trains and outlaws.
Jalesville, population 823, I read on the faded sign welcoming visitors, slowing to a crawl as my tires rolled over a pair of train tracks bisecting Main Street. I’d passed the campground that Mathias and Camille had told me about, the one which had already sold out to Capital Overland – Tomlin was that family’s name; I had memorized all two hundred eleven names on my list, mentally dividing it into two separate categories: Sold and Unsold. My eyes roved curiously over the buildings; most were weathered-looking mom-and-pop shops, wood-construction with metal roofs, awnings jutting over the sidewalks. Hanging planters attached to the streetlights, dripping with candy-colored blossoms. A lone stoplight a few blocks down Main, just like Landon, a series of side streets webbing out from this central artery.
I caught sight of the bar and grill where Mathias and Camille had first met the Rawleys back in 2006, a little place called The Spoke. It appeared busy this evening; I reflected that it was Saturday. In the dusk of approaching evening, Jalesville was quaint, charming. It felt sheltered by the line of low-lying mountains on the western horizon. The air near The Spoke drifted into my open windows and I caught the scent of grease; my stomach groaned in near-pain, as I had been too revved up to eat a thing all day.
People were standing in the parking lot there, smoking and laughing; I almost pulled over and introduced myself to bum a smoke. There was some foot traffic on the sidewalks, a few curious looks directed my way, as surely people here knew one another’s cars and trucks without exception. The stoplight caught me, and I took the time to covertly study my surroundings. My heart jumped as I spotted a little building on the right side of the street, with wide glass windows announcing Howe & James, Attorneys-at-Law. The sign in the door was flipped to CLOSED, lights inside extinguished for the evening. It was all I could do not to pull over and press my nose to the glass.
The light changed and the truck behind me gave a couple light beeps on the horn, so I waved apologetically out the window and then drove forward. I needed to catch Cartersville Road to take me out to the Rawleys’ place, and it took me two wrong turns before I was headed in the right direction. I cleared Jalesville, back into the gorgeous, wide-open foothill country, gazing out my car windows with a great deal of pleasure. The sun was just melting over the edge of the mountain range in the distance when I pulled cautiously into what I believed to be the right place, my heart all fluttery and my stomach twisting.
Holy shit, what a beautiful spot for a home, was my first thought.
Seconds after I put the Honda in park, nervously gripping the wheel with my left fist, the door of the main house banged open and I saw people in the rearview mirror. A lot of people, and dogs, coming towards my car. Laughter, chatter, exclamations of excitement. Almost before I could wrap my fingers around the door handle, I was surrounded.
“There she is! Tish, welcome!” said Clark, closest to the driver’s side. He was grinning widely and opened the door for me; I was swept summarily into a warm embrace. He smelled strongly of peppermint and faintly of tobacco. He drew back to grin at me; he looked just as I remembered, sparse silver hair lifting from his head in the light breeze. His mustache still dominated his face, along with wire-rimmed glasses. His four youngest sons crowded behind him, Marshall, Sean, Quinn and Wy. I remembered the two weeks they’d spent with us in Landon, grilling out, swimming and drinking beer, and felt myself smile, my concern slowly evaporating.
Truly, though, ‘boys’ wasn’t the proper word to describe them any longer, as only Wy was yet a teenager. The Peter Pan tribe had grown up and I was surrounded, almost overwhelmingly, by a rowdy group of handsome, twenty-something men. I thought of Grace and Ina, smiling to myself as I thought about what my former roommates would say at this fortune. Though it was apparent that a couple of them had girlfriends; either that or Clark had adopted two daughters.
“Tish, you remember me, don’t you?” Wy asked, dancing from foot to foot with excitement. He was tall and gangly now, with the same shaggy, dark-brown hair and long noses shared by all the Rawley men. His attitude reminded me instantly of Clint.
“Of course I do,” I said, curbing the odd, tender urge to ruffle his hair. He had only been six years old when his mother had been killed in a car wreck. “You’re just a little bit bigger now.”
All the boys offered hugs; I was introduced to Sean and Quinn’s girlfriends (who did not hug me); they were surface-nice, though their eyes covertly roved over me as potential competition – unknown woman from a different state could be trouble. I understood this, and felt compelled to assure them that I had no designs on their men.
“Garth and Becky couldn’t make it this evening, but they’ll be over this next Friday for supper, as will you, I hope,” Clark said as he led me inside.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” I told him. Inside, the house was redolent with the scents of grilling meat and spice. There was a fire roaring away in a stone fire bowl on the back deck, I could see clearly out the glass patio doors. I felt my shoulders relax fractionally, swept into the warm sense of home that so clearly exuded from these people.
“Come on out, honey, have a chair,” Clark told me. “What would you like to drink?”
Probably I should have said water, but the air out here was intoxicating and as I sank onto a plushy patio chair near the crackly fire, I heard myself respond, “A gin and tonic would be great, if you have it.”
“Coming right up,” Clark said.
I was joined by the whole bunch and found myself truly enjoying their company as they questioned me about Landon, about Mathias and Camille, about Ruthie, and Clint, who they all remembered well. Clark and Quinn resumed grilling steaks on the charcoal grill, and there were appetizers spread across the outdoor table, chips and salsa, a platter of veggies with sour cream dip, but I was content to sip the icy, delicious gin and tonic, my perennial favorite.
It went down a little too well and Wy was quick to refill me almost the second I downed the last swallow, catching an ice cube in my mouth, crunching it as I studied the mountains on the western horizon, which were backlit by a mellow honey glow and reminded me of a dinosaur lying on its side. I heard myself make this observation, along with a giggle, and then Marshall, who was on the glider nearest my chair, snorted a laugh and said, “Wy, I think you’re mixing Tish’s drinks a little strong, bro.”
“I’m just making them how you guys like,” Wy defended, plopping down on my left. He had found a faded gray cowboy hat on the deck, which he settled over his shaggy hair and adjusted with his right hand. From beneath its too-big brim, he regarded me with a smile.
“Shee-it,” Marshall said, drawing out the word, and then everyone was laughing, me included.
“I’m not drunk,” I assured them. “Just…relaxed.”
I was surprised to find that this was true. It could be the gin, the company, the scent in the air, the guitar music on the radio. I couldn’t define it exactly and decided not to try. I settled my shoulder blades more comfortably into the cushions behind me. Marshall was using his thumbs to drum along with the beat.
“This is us,” he told me.
“Hmmm?” I asked, not following.
“One more?” Wy asked me, nodding at my empty glass.
Shit, is that already gone?
“Sure, thanks,” I smiled as charmingly as I could manage at Wy.
“Me, Case and Garth,” Marshall explained. “We got in a few recording sessions at a studio in Billings two years ago, when we still played regularly.”
“You guys don’t play anymore?” I asked, having to concentrate slightly more than normal on my words. I saw Marshall’s eyebrows lift in amusement.
“Too busy, mostly,” Marshall replied. To Wy, who was approaching with a fresh drink in hand, he complained, “Where’s mine?”
“I only wait on beautiful women,” Wy said, smooth as whipped cream, and I giggled as I accepted the glass, accidentally sloshing some onto my hand. It wasn’t until I realized I was licking the gin from my wrist that I understood I was pretty damn toasted.
Sean’s girlfriend Jessie said to Wy, teasing him, “Hey, in that case, grab me a beer!”
“Camille told me you guys are really good,” I said to Marshall, who grinned at once.
“We’ll play at the local fair next week,” he said. “And sometimes in the bars around here, just for fun. We all have day jobs now. Can’t be out on the town quite so much.”
“Oh, whatever,” Sean contradicted his brother. “You’re out on the town as much as you ever were.”
“No, sir,” Marshall disagreed, but there was a teasing gleam in his eye. The song switched from a fast-paced guitar to something sweeter and slower; though I was no musician, I recognized a fiddle.
Indicating the music by lifting my glass into the air, I said honestly, “This is really beautiful. You guys play a lot of old-time music, my sister said.”
“We do, but original stuff too,” Marshall told me. He seemed to be watching me carefully (but maybe I was imagining this), as he said, “Case writes most of our music. He wrote most of the CD that’s playing now.”
I heard myself ask, “Is Case coming for supper?”
Was I a little curious to see him?
Maybe, I allowed.
“Not tonight,” Wy informed me, returning with Jessie’s beer. “He’s over in Miles City tonight. But he said —”
“Bud, go get me a drink,” Marshall interrupted his little brother.
Wy responded, “No way.”
“You want a beating?” Marshall teased. “Besides, Tish needs a new one now too.”
Wy huffed a long-suffering sigh. I told him, “Maybe just a soda this time,” and he nodded, kicking at Marshall’s ankle as he walked past.
“You’ll be working for Al, right?” Jessie asked me then.
I nodded. “Yes, for the summer. I saw his office on the way here. I’m supposed to meet Al tomorrow.”
“He’s a good guy,” she went on, sipping from her beer. “My grandpa just retired, but he worked with Al for years.” She clarified, “Grandpa is the ‘James’ of Howe and James. He was just saying at Sunday dinner last weekend that he’s so glad that someone is coming to help out Al. He said what we need around here is some young blood.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promised, picturing the two lists of surnames I had memorized. Even as fuzzy as my thoughts were at the moment, I recalled a family named James on the Unsold side.
“Watch out for Derrick Yancy,” Marshall startled me by saying. He rocked the glider into gentle motion and added, “He’s been working on Al for a month now. He’s such a big-city bastard. He’ll look at you as a prime target.”
I sat a little straighter. “Prime target for what, exactly?”
“Wheeling and dealing,” Sean said, cupping his hand around Jessie’s thigh and patting her twice. He said, “He’ll see you as someone he can convince that he’s in the right, that folks around here are better off selling to his company and moving elsewhere.”
“Some people seem to think he’s in the right,” I said, as Wy returned with a beer for Marshall and another gin and tonic for me. I said, “Thanks,” sort-of forgetting that I had asked for soda, no alcohol.
“Ever since the power plant closed down last year, times have been tough around here,” Sean said. “It was so unexpected too. Just around Christmas, for God’s sake.”
“Al was saying something about that,” I said. My thoughts were pinwheeling a little bit. A lot bit.
Shit, lay off the drinks, I told myself.
“Dinner, everyone,” Clark said, emerging from the house carrying a platter of sweet corn.
It was then that I tried to stand and instead stumbled, my drink spilling. Wy and Marshall simultaneously caught me, almost as though we had choreographed it, each of them grasping an elbow, one on either side.
“You guys, I’m so sorry,” I babbled. My shorts and legs were soaked with gin. “I’m drunk…”
Everyone was laughing then, to my relief, rather than staring in stun at my ridiculous behavior.
“It’s just that I haven’t eaten all day…” I mumbled.
Clark, reassuring and decisive, just like a dad, came near and said, “Hon, how do you feel about being a houseguest this evening?”
“I think that sounds great,” I told him.
***
Sunday morning I woke up staring at wooden beams. I blinked, absorbing the sight of sunlight streaking through a tall window to the right of the bed, creating a rich tint like iced tea on the ceiling. I blinked again, my mouth so dry it was almost impossible to swallow, a headache sprouting just behind my right eye.
I could hear the sounds of everyone downstairs, the Rawleys probably having breakfast and marveling at how unprofessional I was, up here in their guest bedroom after having been too loaded to even join them for supper. Instead, Clark had escorted me up here while Wy fetched my travel bag from my car. Without so much as undressing, I had collapsed on the bed and now here I lay in the morning light. Smelling coffee perking, hearing laughter and chatter from below, embarrassed as hell.
My phone chirped at me then, somewhere close by. I rolled to one elbow, groaned a little, and saw it on the small sheepskin rug near the bed. I leaned and caught it up, seeing a text from Camille.
Drunk on your first night there. LOL.
For fuck’s sake. I supposed I deserved this, behaving that way. Grimly I tapped the screen to respond, I know. It’s totally pitiful. Don’t need your shit right now too.
I could almost hear my sister giggling, back in Minnesota. She wrote, They think its hysterical. Don’t worry.
Talk you u later, I wrote, then dropped my phone and flopped to my back once more, crossing my forearms over my eyes. I supposed I couldn’t stay up here, hiding out.
I needn’t have worried; Clark and the boys gave me a bunch of good-natured ribbing when I cautiously descended the stairs and shuffled to the kitchen ten minutes later, after a cursory examination in the bathroom I discovered down the hall. I looked like shit, but that was my own fault. What I wanted right now was a hot shower, preferably in the privacy of my own apartment.
Clark called Al for me, asking him to meet us at Stone Creek Apartments in fifteen minutes, and then he and Wy elected to escort me there; they led the way in Clark’s truck, Wy driving. Back through town, right at the stoplight (my head was aching enough that I had trouble admiring Jalesville in the bright sunlight), and then only a few more miles, past a fairground and over a wide stone bridge that spanned the distance across the Stone Creek (so the sign proclaimed) that had clearly lent the apartment its name, and then into the gravel parking lot of the building I recognized from the pictures I’d found online.
Ahead of me, Wy parked and hopped down, coming back to the driver’s side of my car to say, “There’s a spot for you, Tish, right over there,” and he indicated. “See, it’s got your name on it. And Al is here to meet us, right over there.”
My heart jumped a little at this mention of my boss, Ron’s friend, the man who’d left Chicago for this place almost two decades ago. I pulled into the parking spot labeled ‘Gordon’ and climbed out into the beat of the midday sun, terribly conscious of my messy hair, last night’s clothes and un-showered state. Clark and a small, balding man were chatting on the sidewalk, in the shade of the building, but they interrupted themselves as I approached, putting a smile on my face despite my headache.
“Patricia!” the man who was undoubtedly Al Howe said. He moved towards me at once and I took cautious stock of him, noting the seemingly-kind light blue eyes, the thin rim of cream-colored hair ringing his head, aviator-style sunglasses and casual dress clothes, khaki pants and a white button-down shirt, no tie. He looked like a grandpa come to visit his grandkids. He offered his hand at once, and I took it firmly into my own, recalling everything I had learned about the proper way to shake a hand, to indicate that you meant business.
“How are you?” I asked politely.
Al pumped our joined hands twice, then patted the back of mine, offering me what I took to be a genuine smile; I had known enough lawyers to be wary. Even my own father’s face was rarely graced with a non-calculated grin. Al said, “I am most pleased to meet you. You come highly recommended, I hope you know.”
“Thank you,” I said, hiding overt pleasure at this statement, wanting to appear professional. Then I added, “I’m happy to be here.” And I actually meant that, a great deal more than I would have guessed even two days ago.
“You’re needing a day or so to settle in,” Al recognized, releasing my hand and digging a couple of keys from his breast pocket. “Though I would like to invite you to dinner this evening, if that works for you. My wife would love to meet you.”
“That would be wonderful,” I told him. “Thank you again.”
Clark said to Wy, “Buddy, grab Tish’s bags. Let’s get her into her new place.”
Between the four of us, all of my things were carried up the stairs to the second floor with one trip; my apartment was 206, and Al unlocked and swung open the door.
“Oh, I love it,” I heard myself say. I set the two bags I’d hauled up onto the carpet and spun in a slow circle, admiring the sunlit space.
“Brand new building,” Al explained. “This is a nice little place.”
“I like your porch!” Wy said, darting across the living room with its brown leather couch (saggy and well-used, but probably comfortable as hell), small TV on a cube-shaped stand, a recliner upholstered in faded blue denim, and a lone bookshelf, empty of any reading material. Wy unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped out into the sunshine, admiring the view from a narrow balcony overlooking the parking lot. But the mountains were visible in the distance, and I pictured sitting right there tonight and smoking a couple of celebratory, welcome-to-my-own-place cigarettes.
The living room was to the right, the kitchen straight ahead, both with west-facing windows. The entire place was small, but it was mine, and I felt a delicious thrill at the thought of this. Already I was envisioning where I would put my things, the plants I would have to buy for the windowsill and top of the fridge. There was a little round wooden table with four mismatched chairs, a patchwork quilt hanging on the wall above it, along with a framed picture featuring mountains at sunset. The table was graced with a set of four yellow placemats.
“Where do you want these things?” Clark asked. He was burdened with two more of my bags.
“Oh, right on the carpet there is perfect,” I said. And then, “Clark, thank you so much for your help.”
He winked at me as he set the luggage on the floor. He said, “I’m already looking forward to dinner this next Friday. I can’t wait to hear all about your week.”
Al said, “Patricia, here are your keys. And here are directions to my house. We live just off of the old highway, maybe a mile out of town. Can’t miss it. Should we say dinner at six?”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, reaching to shake his hand once more. “And please, call me Tish. I don’t usually go by Patricia.”
“Tish,” he said agreeably. “You’ll have to explore Jalesville a bit this afternoon. The grocery is a block over from the law office. There’s a bank near that. The office is three blocks from the official town square and the city council building, the courthouse.”
“I will, and thank you again,” I told Al.
“Until this evening then,” Al said, taking his leave.
Clark called to Wy, who was still on the porch, “Let’s give Tish a chance to settle in, son.”
“I’m coming!” Wy said, ducking back inside. He caught me in an exuberant hug on the way out the door. He added, “I work at Nelson’s Hardware right near the law office, so come see me if you want. Maybe we can have lunch sometimes!”
Clark said, “Call us if you need anything this week, won’t you?”
“I will,” I said, and then, since Al was not in earshot, added, “I’m sorry about getting drunk last night…”
Clark laughed at this, saying, “Never you mind about that. You’d obviously had a long day.”
A minute later I was left alone in my own place. Feeling like the little girl in The Secret Garden, I explored every last closet (of which there were exactly two), prowled down the short hall and checked out my bedroom, which featured a full-size bed (I had brought along my own pillows, sheets and blankets from Minnesota) and a chest of drawers, not so much as a mirror. The adjacent bathroom was itty-bitty, hardly large enough to turn in a full circle, tiled in dark blue. The shower stall was a stand-up; apparently there would be no long tub soaks this summer.
I was undeniably excited to be here. I dug out my portable radio first thing and set it up on top of the yellow kitchen counter, finding a country station on the dial (something I had not listened to much the past three years, but I found myself craving a steel guitar. The sound of a fiddle). Cranking the music, I opened the kitchen window and then slid back the glass door to the porch, leaving only the screen between me and the scent in the air. The porch featured a solo canvas chair, angled so that someone sitting on it could prop his or her feet on the waist-high railing.
Back inside, I spent a good hour unpacking, arranging and rearranging my things, making up my bed, exploring down the outer hallway in the building, which led to a communal, coin-operated laundry room, four doors down.
Remember to get quarters, I reminded myself.
I hung up my five “lawyer” outfits, my standard jacket-and-pencil skirt combo, all in no-nonsense neutral tones. I could mix them up a little with the array of colorful linen and satin blouses I wore beneath the jackets. I loaded all of my casual summer clothes into the dresser, lined up my shoes on the floor of the bedroom closet and stuffed my panties and nylons into the top-most drawer. Then, feeling a swell of accomplishment, I stripped to my skin and showered, determined to make a trip to the grocery store. I needed milk, a few rolls of quarters, orange juice, coffee and cigarettes. Just one pack. I would make them last the whole summer.
By quarter after six that evening, I was seated at Al and his wife Helen Anne’s dining table. The two of them lived on an acreage (also in the crosshairs of Capital Overland) that had been in Helen Anne’s family for three generations, where Al had moved his family after they decided to return west and leave Chicago for good. Their home was quietly impressive, a rambling, ranch-style constructed of native stone (as Al informed me on the grand tour). They had three grown children, all of whom now lived in Colorado and had no interest in returning to Montana.
“They’ve moved to where the jobs are,” Al lamented as Helen Anne served broiled pork chops, mashed potatoes, crusty white bread, corn pudding and fruit salad. Butter and luscious gravy and salt, all combining to make my stomach cramp with hunger; again I had hardly eaten a bite all day, too hungover. This was the first I’d felt ready to consume food. Al went on, “I did hope that at least one of them would have gone into law, in order to take over the firm someday. But I’ll retire before that happens.” He chuckled a little, adding, “Probably be dead, actually.”
Helen Anne, taking her seat, scolded, “Bite your tongue, Albert, goodness.” To me she said, “Dear, please do eat. You’re as thin as a whippet. We’ll fatten you up out here, mark my words.”
I took up my fork and said, “I haven’t eaten such a good meal in a long time.”
“Law school,” Al sighed, buttering a thick slice of bread. The three of us were settled intimately at one end of a formal dining table, a fire crackling just behind me. I felt far more comfortable with them than I would have guessed, as though I was seated with my grandparents; for a second I imagined what dining with Ron Turnbull and his wife would be like, and then repressed a slight shudder. Assuming I would ever be invited to dinner with Ron and Christina.
Certainly it would take place at one of Chicago’s top ten restaurants, formalwear and crystal, escargot and champagne, proper forks and my internal guard on all speech firmly in place. Ron’s wife would drink vodka martinis, probably exclusively; she was only a few years older than me, possessed of the kind of outrageous beauty that very few can actually achieve, the kind that Ron’s money clearly attracted (as she surely wasn’t legitimately attracted to him), and then I almost giggled at this uncharitable thought.
“I remember well those days,” Al said. “I must have weighed a good forty pounds less than I do now.”
Helen Anne dished more mashed potatoes onto my plate without my asking, but somehow this only warmed my heart, and sharpened the comparison I had been making between her and Christina Turnbull. Dining in Al’s home, wearing a linen sundress and sandals, my hair in a loose bun at the back of my head, I realized I would never feel this sort of comfort with any boss in Chicago.
Enjoy it while you can, I told myself, ladling gravy over my pork chops.
“Tish, we practice primarily family and bankruptcy law, and serve most all of southeastern Rosebud County,” Al told me as the meal progressed. “I’m a jack of all trades, to be honest. I know in the city,” and I understood he meant Chicago, “there’s more exclusivity in what you’d practice on a daily basis. Here, I have to be everything for everyone, so to speak, but it makes the days interesting. Rupert James and I worked together for the last fifteen years. He was more than ready to retire, but I almost don’t know what to do with myself now. I’m close to retirement myself, and none of mine or Rupert’s children are here to take over the practice. And now all of this business with Capital Overland. I’ve been beside myself.”
“In your opinion, what prompted the company to turn its eye to Jalesville?” I asked. “I mean, I understand their basic motive, snapping up land and reselling. But why Jalesville? They’ve been almost exclusively purchasing in Wyoming for the past five years.”
“It has to do with the closing of the power plant,” Al said. “Coal mining is a big industry around here, and when the plant closed, it put half the area out of work. Companies have ways of smelling opportunities, that’s what. Here’s prime land that they can snap up and resell, knowing that plenty of folks will agree to sell because they need money now.”
“Can the plant be reopened?” I asked, my mind clicking along. “Why did it close?”
“They claimed bankruptcy at the time,” Al explained, his mouth full. “I drafted motions for more than one worker, but the plant did everything by the book, and because they were laid off, the workers were able to file for unemployment for a time. Problem is, most of the ranches in the area are no longer working ones, meaning they don’t have the livestock anymore. People sitting on hectares of property, most often that have been in their family for generations, just like ours here, and I’m afraid they see this as an opportunity to make money on something that’s arguably useless now.”
“Never mind that the town will no longer exist,” I said. No one in Chicago would give two fucks about it, but it made my heart hurt on some level. This was home to hundreds of people. Where would they go now? Who would care?
“According to Derrick Yancy’s exact words, that is not his problem,” said Al.
“He’s trouble,” Helen Anne added, eyeing me intently. “You’re a lovely young woman. He’ll try to manipulate you, mark my words. Albert, you don’t let that happen.”
I felt my spine straightening, ready to inform her that I would not let that happen, but then I wisely bit my tongue; she was offering the kind of commentary that Grandma and Aunt Ellen would, back home. She was only worried about me. I would prove that I could hold my own, and then some.
Al said, “You’ll meet plenty like him in your career, Tish, I hate to say. He’s typical of a Chicago-style businessman, unfortunately. This will be good experience for you. Ron knew what he was doing, sending you our way for the summer.”
“Field experience,” I said, repeating Dad’s words, and Al winked kindly at me.
“Indeed. Tomorrow why don’t you head into the office around eight, and I’ll show you the ropes, introduce you to Mary, my secretary. She already baked a half a dozen loaves of banana bread for you.”
“And I’m sending you home with two more of sourdough,” Helen Anne added. “Just came out of the oven a few hours ago.”
“Thank you,” I told her, gratefully. “Everyone has made me feel so welcome.”
“That’s our job,” Al said. “Small-town nice, right? Now, eat up and let’s chat about non-work-related things, shall we? Enough time for work tomorrow.”