Angela decides to accompany Charlie on his Mason City trip.

Chapter 5

A Stirring of Dull Roots

"And so, from hour to hour we ripe and ripe,
And then from hour to hour we rot and rot,
And thereby hangs a tale."

-Shakespeare: As You Like It


Charlie put the frozen hamburger under hot water in the sink to thaw, rattled around in the cupboard, found a kettle, and set noodle water to boil. Now, where would he find the money to go to Mason City? He had to go, there were no two ways about it, but he'd paid a hundred and fifty dollars to get his muffler fixed, which left him with a paltry five hundred before his next retirement check, not due for another month.
The water came to a boil and he tossed in half a package of Creamettes. About once a week, he whipped together this goulash his mother had taught him how to make. It was simple man food, almost as simple as a TV dinner, only tasting a whole lot less like cardboard. He wondered if Angela was a good cook. She had to be; she and that new composite of Betty Crocker could be sisters.
The folks at Pillsbury were trying to make Betty look more Hispanic because of all the new immigrants. Angela had her eyes, her hair, her coloring, her eyebrows, even that little flip off her forehead.
As he added salt to the noodles, the cat scratched on the door and Charlie went to let him in. The cat had a Hey, Pops! Whatsamatter, cat got your tongue? expression on its puss. Charlie took a soup bowl out of the cabinet and poured the cat a dollop of milk.
Charlie turned the heat down on the boiling noodles. He wondered what Angela was doing now, making dinner too probably. As thin as she was she'd be one of those salad types, or worse yet, a vegetarian.
The hamburger was getting soft, so he tore it up and put it in a skillet, the last few shreds still frozen. How much money would he need for Mason City? Two weeks ought to be enough to give it the old college try. He'd have to stay in one of those inflationary motels; fifty bucks a night minimum.
As the hamburger browned, the smell beginning to make his mouth water, Charlie went into his bedroom and dragged out his old suitcase. One of the catches refused to snap, probably all those times when he'd forced the sucker shut jumping up and down on it. What should he take? Underwear for a week. If he took much more, doing laundry would take forever, and he hated doing laundry.
He dragged the suitcase into the kitchen. Yes, he was definitely going to Iowa, and he wasn't even going to tell the old ball and chain.
As he was about to turn the pinkish hamburger with the spatula again, the telephone chirped. Since he was standing right next to it, he answered the bothersome thing. "If you're selling something, I'm not interested," he said.
"Charles, this is Angela."
His jaws locked, just like the time he'd given his first speech in that general education class everybody had to take in college. "Mmnnnn," he said.
"I'm calling about Dorie Bendix, Charles. She's been kidnapped; I imagine you've heard." There was a brief pause. Charlie still couldn't talk. "There wasn't much in the paper, and I was wondering if you knew anything."
Putting one hand over the receiver, he slapped himself with the other. It worked. "I . . .I just talked to Jill. You know, Jill Jondura. She was Dorie's best friend. She says Dorie was being stalked, she actually saw the guy while out jogging, and she reported it to the police. Jill says he was sending her all sorts of expensive presents. I'm going to Mason City to check it out, maybe get a story for the Shopper in the process."
Charlie sniffed. Something was burning. He checked the stove. His rubber spatula was on fire again. He threw it in the sink and ran water over it.
"Oh, Charles, do you think that's a good idea?"
"I don't know why not. She was the best student I ever had; I owe it to her and her family to do what I can."
"I'm sorry, Charles. I just meant that maybe the Mason City police would resent your snooping around, getting in the way."
"There are other reporters. I do know something they don't, however, and that gives me a bit of a head start."
Why not ask her to go along? Nick and Nora Charles they'd be. He couldn't do it; she had her job at the insurance agency. She'd never go.
Charlie stretched the extension cord to the stove, where he sprinkled salt and pepper over the hamburger. "I've got that itch again, Angela. I haven't had that itch for twenty years. Joseph Campbell says that if you refuse the call to heroism, which most of us do, our lives will be miserable."
"Joseph Campbell? Didn't he do that PBS special with Bill Moyers?"
"That's the one. I met this old codger at the rodeo who fights bulls for a living, runs right at them sometimes when a cowboy is in trouble."
Charlie tucked the phone under his chin, added a can of tomatoes to the mix and stirred. Next, he dumped out the boiling water, careful not to be in too much of a hurry--you could scald yourself if you rushed it. Sometimes he lost the noodles in the sink.
"You sound like Hemingway, Charles."
"I've overcome some challenges, I guess. I tell you I took a knife away from a kid once?"
"Yes, and I thought you were very brave when you stood up to Mr. Nesbit regarding Dorie's editorial."
"You did?"
The hamburger was browned enough to deter salmonella, time to throw the noodles in with the hamburger.
"I did. Well, good luck, Charles. Let me know if I can do anything."
"I will. Thanks, Angela." He hung up the phone, danced around the room on his toes like Nureyev, then scooped out a large helping of goulash onto one of his cracked plates and sat down at the kitchen table to feast. It tasted tepid and bland; he'd forgotten the onions again. No matter, he wasn't really hungry. He put the pan in the frig; it was always better the second day.
The bloom of Angela's praise wore off quickly. What an ass he'd made of himself. Bragging about disarming that boy. Telling her about Joseph "fucking" Campbell. A fifty-year-old geek is what he was. And he'd definitely refused the call to heroism. He hadn't had to courage to pursue his true calling as a writer, to suffer hunger pangs, slave in a restaurant busing tables, or do the grunt work of a cab driver or late night janitor. He looked over at his suitcase. Couldn't get the VW out of the muffler shop until Monday. Why the fuck was he packing now?
He hurled his plate into the sink, smashing it into shards. This time he'd face up to the challenge; he'd go to Mason City and he'd find Dorie, money or no money.
#
Angela sat in her rocker, tapping a fingernail on a front tooth, staring through the anchorman mouthing the report on Dorie's kidnapping on the ten o'clock news. Should she call that Detective Black and find out exactly what they were doing about Dorie? She cupped her chin in her hands. No, most likely he had his hands full.
She should have asked Charles if he'd mind if she went along to Mason City. Surely, two heads were always better than one. But she'd heard such terrible gossip from Dottie and Babe about that man. Drinking episodes, various tawdry affairs with women. Once he'd asked her out on a holy day, very nervous-sounding and obviously drunk. When she'd said, "But Charles; it's Good Friday," he hadn't even known. He'd said, "That's right; it's Lent, isn't it?"
Angela was still in her chair rocking when the Tonight Show came on. Jay Leno's guests and skits couldn't hold her attention either. She didn't want to be one of those lonely people who had the television on to keep them company, so she switched it off and went to bed. The weatherman had predicted the temperatures in the twenties tonight, so she got out an extra quilt. She read her Bible until she got drowsy and was about to drift off when she thought she heard a scratching at the door.
Her first reaction was to ignore it, but when she peeked out the window, she noticed the frost on the pane. Jack Frost was certainly at it already; any poor creature out there in the cold would be having a tough time of it.
Angela padded out into the living room in her bare feet, spurning her slippers. The new blue carpeting felt good between her toes.
A cat had come to her door--a cat who'd been dealt a bad hand in the evolutionary game of chance. "Well, hello there fellow. What are you doing out there?"
The cat strutted in with its tail held high in that way they have, surveyed the room, then rubbed up against her leg, marking its territory. She knew this because her friend Dottie had fourteen cats. Dottie had an extensive library on felines. She should really go on the $64,000 Question with cats being her category.
Angela chuckled. The cat looked at her as if it wanted in on the humor. Patches of fur were missing, and he seemed hungry. She gathered him up, wrapped him in an old shawl, and got them both a cup of warm milk. She'd take him to the Humane Society tomorrow. She'd never be able to keep him; she was allergic. Besides, the cat would die of loneliness while she was away at work and her various projects. She found an old cardboard container, lined it with newspaper, put the old shawl over that, and laid the box on the floor next to her bed.
Her humanitarian effort seemed to put her mind at ease; she was finally able to sleep. In the dream, she was old. All wrinkled and whiskered with liver spots on her hands. That nice Dorie Billmeyer had just delivered her Meals On Wheels. Today's entre was Swedish Meatballs, which tasted like sawdust, but Angela had not been allowed near her stove since she'd left the burners on one night and almost burned down her house. Her sister Margie had threatened to put her in a rest home. After Dorie left, Angela sat in her rocker on the front porch. It was early fall, and despite the seventy-degree weather, she wore two cardigan sweaters, gray and dowdy. She was petting her cat, Marley, whom she'd owned for what seemed like ages. He had to be at least twenty, but unlike her, Marley seemed to get younger through the years. The patches on his fur had healed, he had a healthy appetite, he was the neighborhood Romeo.
A car passed doing at least fifty, its loud muffler shattering the early afternoon peace. A red one with a blue streak along its side, young Jimmy Musielewicz at the wheel, showing off for his girlfriend who lived four houses down in that little Tudor with the bay window. Where were his parents that they'd allow him to make such a nuisance of himself? Speeding through her neighorhood, endangering children and old people who didn't have the reflexes to jump out of the way? If she'd had a son like Jimmy, she'd have taught him about responsibility towards one's neighbors. If he were hers, Jimmy would have given her grandchildren. She sighed, stroked the cat. Sadly, she'd never married. Not the only thing she'd never done. She'd never done anything really. Worked in an insurance office, helped at the high school, taught CCD.
She heard a loud bang, the clatter of what sounded like a hub cap hitting the pavement. She took her glasses out of their case and put them on. Down the block, the red car stood sideways in the street, its front left fender crumpled. Water gushed high in the air from a fire hydrant. She cast the cat out of her lap and hurried toward where Jimmy lay in the street . . .
Angela jerked awake. Although it was below freezing outside and she always turned the thermostat down to sixty at night, she was perspiring so intensely her pajamas were wet. Jimmy Musielewicz had been alive in the dream. But she hadn't even known the boy; he'd been a little baby when . . . She got up, crossed to the stereo. Music always soothed her.
Back in bed, she settled under the covers. Her feet were cold from walking around in the dead of night. She'd try to think of something else. All the birthday cards she'd received from her CCD youngsters. The cake she'd gotten from her SADD students. She dozed.
The alarm was blaring in her ear. She reached over and shut it off. Time for another day of work at the insurance office. She was beginning to hate the place. If Stanley would only let her sell some policies. She reached over and grasped her dream book, careful not to knock over her glass of water she always kept on her bed stand.
It was then she noticed the box was empty. She spent a few minutes searching the small house, but the cat was nowhere to be found. She had no pet door or anything; he had to be somewhere. No time to coax him out of his hidey-hole; she'd never been late for work in the thirty years she'd worked at the insurance office, first for Stanley's father and then for the foxy Stanley Jr.
Thank God today was Saturday, only a half day, followed by her garden club meeting at one. She looked under the couch in the living room. No sign of him. "If that cat were mine, I'd name him Marley," she said, and in explanation, "A good name for a cat who can walk through walls." But she'd never be able to keep him; she was allergic. Actually, she was allergic to the protein present in the cat's saliva, which would dry and hang in the air, as old Doc Clement had explained when she'd first gone to him about it. She was really a dog person anyway.
She got under the shower and began to soap herself down, careful to turn the pressure down. Americans used way too much water. She definitely needed some sort of change. Maybe she'd take some vacation time, visit the North Shore.
#
After a quiet morning with few clients and only a couple of telephone calls, Angela put the coffee on, unlocked the conference room, got a linen tablecloth out of the cupboard, shook it out. Loved that smell of freshly laundered linen. Next, she took a cellophane-covered plate out of the refrigerator in the break room, cheese and cold cuts arranged in a kind of fan, set it on the cloth, and did a pirouette to take in the room she'd designed. Stanley called it "the park" because of all the nature prints Angela had hung on the walls: a waterfall, a young whitetail buck leaping over a fence, a fastidious raccoon washing its paws.
Dottie and Babe got to the office a few minutes after one. Dottie, the obese one, uncovered a plate of sweat rolls, and Babe, the anorexic one, set out a veggie plate with veggie dip, along with some Doritos and jalapeno dip.
"What is that delectable smell?" Dottie said.
"Oh, I'm trying out some new coffee I got in the mail," Angela said. "It's imported from Denmark." Babe poured a cup, adding a touch of wine cooler. Dottie and Angela scowled at her, clucked their tongues. Babe stuck out her tongue at them.
"Guess who we saw coming out of the Super Valu, Angie?" Babe said, checking her face in her compact. Babe had big pouches under her eyes, like that prosecutor in the O.J. Trial. Dottie smirked at Angela, the garish-red lipstick staining her teeth.
"Ordinarily I wouldn't have the slightest idea," Angela said, "but you seem so pleased with yourself it has to be a man. Okay, spill it. Who was it and why should I care?"
"Why should you care? We're all getting older, Angie," Babe said. "Have you ever thought of putting your name in one of those personal ads? You're a good-looking woman; you could pass for thirty-five."
"Oh, pshaw," Angela said.
Dottie and Babe tittered. They always did when she used anachronistic expressions like "pshaw."
The three took seats around the table, Dottie resting her ample bosom on the table cloth, Babe lighting a Virginia Slim.
Angela nibbled on a piece of cheese. "Who's the guy you saw?" she said.
"Bobby Taylor," Dottie said. "You know, I told you about him on the phone. That he was back in town. And he was with this tart. They say he's been married three times already."
"What was so tartish about her?"
"She had one of those minidresses on," Babe said, exhaling cigarette smoke toward the ceiling. "I could see her hinder, I swear." Babe dangled her fingers in the air. She liked to show off her rings. She wore one on each finger and her thumb.
Before Angela could react, the outside bell sounded and Mike Brown tracked snow into the room, a blast of cold air causing Angela to shiver. "You girls hear about Charlie Zelnick?" he said. "Mrs. Booth told me he's going to Mason City to try to find Dorie Bendix. She's watching his house for him while he's gone."
"What do you care about Charlie?" Dottie said. "I hear you ticketed him for a bad muffler the other day." Dottie snatched a Kleenex out of her purse, blew her nose with the sound of a Bronx cheer. One of these days she was going to burst an eardrum.
Mike poured a cup of coffee, adding a lump of sugar and a cloud of cream. "I swear a dog could piss on a hydrant and you wouldn't miss it, Dottie. I was just afraid he'd get himself in a big mess is all. He doesn't know anything about detection." Mike hung his khaki parka on a hook near the door and sank down in one of the executive chairs arranged around the table.
"I heard he was doing a story for the Shopper," Babe said.
"I'll bet you a month's pay he gets arrested," Brown said. He helped himself to a sweet roll, bit into it, crumbs and frosting filtering down his flannel front.
The three women gave each other knowing looks. No one took him up on the bet. Babe grinned at Angela and winked. "Must be dull sitting behind that billboard waiting to ticket speeders," she said. "You need to spice up your life a bit."
"I don't suppose you'd like to join our garden club?" Angela said. "We've been soliciting male members."
The little pig eyes showed fear. He wiped his hands on his shirt front, practically ran to wrench his parka off the hook, and was out the door before Angela could blink.
"We've been soliciting male members?" Dottie said. "Sounds like a dirty joke."
"You'd think he would have thanked us for the refreshments," Babe said. "Have you heard what his wife did to him the other day?
"Was that the time she painted his toenails candy-apple red while he was asleep?" Dottie said.
When the girls finished gossiping about Mike Brown, Angela told them about the upcoming trip to Mason City. The Billmeyer family wanted to conduct their own search, and Angela had volunteered to coordinate. "Babe, do you think Bill would be willing to give us a break on a charter?"
Babe's husband owned the school buses for the district and often arranged for charters for Twins and Vikings games for senior citizens and the like.
"I'm sure he'll do it for nothing. If he knows what's good for him."
"Babe'll cut him off if he doesn't," Dottie said. "They don't call her Lorena behind her back for nothing."
"I've been thinking of going along," Angela said. "What about you two? It'll be a pleasant change of pace."
"What does Stanley think about you gallivanting all over Iowa with nobody to run the office?"
Angela moved the cheese and cold cut plate toward her side of the table, straightening some of the pieces. "I had this dream last night. Dorie was in it; so was little Jimmy Musielewicz."
Babe took a celery stalk, salted it, took a bite. "Dreams don't mean shit. The left side of your brain goes to sleep, and the right side, the crazy side, stays awake. That's your Jimmy Musielewicz for you."
"You guys get a load of that detective who's investigating Dorie's case," Dottie said. "His picture was in the paper. He can sure fill up a pair of jeans if that photo was a true likeness."
"Speaking of a tight pair of jeans," Babe said. "Stanley still giving you the slap and tickle?"
"Oh, that's nothing. Stanley is just confused about his marriage."
The ladies wheeled as they heard a key turn in the lock of the office door. Stanley Truex stumbled into the room. He was unshaven; his clothes were unkempt, as if he'd slept in them.
"Hello, Ladies," he said. "Mind if I sit in? I've never been to a garden club meeting before." He collapsed on the couch in the corner, his head disappearing turtle-like inside his navy-blue raincoat.
Dottie and Babe pushed back from the table, as if they didn't know whether to run for it or dial 911. Angela was about to get Stanley a wet rag and some aspirin from the bathroom when he threw up on the floor. There was a moment's hesitation with the smell of the unwell wafting over them, but then the matronly nature of the women won out, the bucket brigade went into action, and Babe called Stanley's mother.
Mrs. Truex gave Babe a ride home, but Dottie hung back to talk to Angela. "You're going to Mason City alone if we don't go, aren't you?"
"I didn't tell you everything that was in the dream. I was an old woman who'd never done anything more significant than teach CCD. Dorie's kidnapping is a tragedy, but it's also an opportunity. I won't be able to live with myself if I don't go."
Dottie slipped into her coat. "First Charlie, now you. You don't even know where to start, Angela. And what about your job?"
"I was going to quit anyway, Dot. Working in an insurance office has got to be the most boring job in the world."
"Ordinarily I'd say you were nuts trying to start over at your age, but you know, sometimes I fantasize . . . I always wanted to be an actress. We're still young, Angela. What do you think you might want to do if you quit?"
"I love writing my gardening column for Mrs. Zelnick. Maybe I can take on something more challenging. First things first, though. I know Dorie Bendix is still alive. I'm not waiting for the Billmeyer bus. I'm going with Charles."
#
Dancing was the closest Dorie could get to an out-of-body experience. When she'd been in school, she'd actually preferred dancing by herself as she could do glissades, pirouettes, and splits without some red-faced boy's jaw hitting the floor.
And so she'd found Creedence Clearwater Revival in Marv's record collection and cranked the volume. She could get off and also annoy Marv. The music was so loud, the floor was quaking.
Dorie danced to "Travelin' Band" and "Green River", then "Heard it Through the Grapevine", which was somewhat slower and gave her a chance to catch her breath. She was bopping to "Hey Tonight" when she first heard the children. They had to be imaginary children; you couldn't possibly hear their giggling over the music. Then she saw their little noses pressed up against the glass. She shut the music off and started jumping up and down, yelling "Get help! Get help!" And then they were gone. She must have been hallucinating.
Out of breath, she put Cat Stevens on the turntable, still at a volume that made her teeth chatter. That man had such a mellow voice. She flopped down on the couch, put her feet up on the hassock, sipped at the Holland House white cooking wine Marv had stocked. Next time Marv came down she'd make him get her something stronger.
Just as she was getting pleasantly ripped, the trucks started up again outside. She moved the breakfast table over, got up on top, and tried to see out the window. The little window was still much too high. Maybe if she put a chair on top of the table. She craned her neck upwards; she could pry some of those tiles off which would make it easier for the guys in the trucks to hear her scream. But how the hell was she supposed to get up there?
She could still hear the trucks. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She'd done a story for the station once on hog calling; Marcie had thought it would be cute if she entered the contest. Came damn close to winning. Screaming in a vacuum was kind of like talking to voice mail, though. She began low with a wail, moved up to a bellow, progressed to a screech, and then started laughing. She'd never get out of this place.
Dorie glanced over at the stove. She had fire. She looked over at the door. Steel door, wooden frames. She checked the stove again. Would the vent be strong enough to absorb enough smoke so she wouldn't asphyxiate herself?
Marv didn't seem to be home or he'd have been down here already threatening to take away her stereo. She needed to talk this out with someone. When she'd been a little girl she'd had an imaginary friend named Ginger.
"So, Ginger, should I set fire to this dump and go out in a blaze of glory? I've never heard of one of these guys letting anybody go, have you? You do know I'm a reporter these days, don't you?" Ginger didn't answer. Dorie guessed you had to be a little kid in order to have an imaginary friend.
Dorie crumpled a page of newspaper, lit one end at the stove, and slid the unlit portion under the door next to the wooden frame. She began coughing almost immediately. She'd forgotten to turn on the stove vent. The newspaper went out in the meantime. She lit another page and began feeding successive pages until she was pretty sure the wood had caught. A blue haze was already forming overhead. A dog began barking, mingling with the sounds of the diesel trucks and the giggling children. Dorie moved away from the door and sat in her rocker, waiting for the door to collapse. The room grew hazier and hazier; her eyes began to sting. She figured she'd better get down on the floor like firemen said to do if your house was on fire. She should be able to hear when the door collapsed.
She woke up tied to a chair. Marv was hammering away at the door frame. "Of all the stupid, idiotic, motherfucking stunts, this one wins the fucking prize." He wasn't stuttering at all. 

MENGELE'S DOUBLE is a work in progress.
Dave Schwinghammer's published novel, SOLDIER'S GAP is available at Amazon.com.