The Great Leader

  In semisleep he could see Diane and Lucy standing next to each other and there was a drift of thoughts about his own unworthiness. He should have married a Munising girl from a mill family though by the time he was in the tenth grade he had aspired to a better world and had lived a life caught in between.

  As he reentered sleep he laughed remembering when their little group of outcasts including two local mixed- bloods had fired some stolen bottle rockets at the Mouton brothers’ fake cowboy camp in a woodlot up the steep hill behind town. The attack came at dawn while the Moutons were asleep. When the rockets hit Sunderson and his group jumped up screaming and charged up the hill. Sunderson’s terrier-Lab mix upended the biggest brother by ripping at a pant leg. Sunderson’s gang got the shit beat out of them but it was worth it. Unfortunately the rocket had started a fire in the woods that spread to a few acres and his dad had to accompany him to the police station where he was threatened with reform school way down in Lansing. His laughter dampened when he recalled Diane’s first visit north when they were seniors at Michigan State. He had seen her glance at the raw board floors of the dining room and the oval braided rug his mother had made. The whole family had immediately loved Diane and were quick to tell Sunderson he wasn’t good enough for her. His dad had taken him aside and told him that Diane had too much “class” and was sure to ditch him.

  The last bit of laughter came at dawn when Sunderson dreamed the smell of fire and he remembered a remote cabin that served as a meth lab over near Crystal Falls that had burned one April. There had been a late snow and he rode in with a new local deputy on a snowmobile. The fire was still smoldering and right away Sunderson smelled burned flesh but didn’t mention it to the deputy, waiting for him to make his own discovery. It was a bright blue day and Sunderson enjoyed the growing warmth that meant it was over freezing temperature. He watched the deputy poking in the ruins until he heard him yell, “Jesus Christ, a fucking burned-up body!” The deputy puked then fainted. Sunderson rubbed snow on his face and the deputy looked up and said, “It’s my wife’s birthday. I was going to grill steaks and now I’m not.”

  Mona called just as Sunderson was leaving the room short of 7:00 a.m. “I missed your peeking. It was like a vacuum.”

  “Never mind. What’s up?”

  “I found out Dwight’s origins. His mom was in the Peace Corps in Uganda. She got knocked up by a French civil engineer working on a dam project. She died from various tropical diseases when Dwight was a year old. He was raised by his grandparents. They died then it was foster parents.”

  “I’m running late. Fax it along. Also go in my study and check page 300 of Judy Crichton’s America 1900. Something about the Middle Ages from the New York Times. I forgot a quote I used to know by heart.” It must be age he thought.

  “Okay, right away. Darling, I miss your old eyes burning a hole in my butt from your peek hole.”

  Sunderson said thank you and rushed out.

  Chapter 4

  His mind flip-flopped seeing Lucy with her father. She acted like a ditzy teenager. It wasn’t a chink in her armor but a whole gully. His name was Bushrod, a name Sunderson had only encountered in certain New England historical texts. He was Scots-English, a bantam sun-wizened bully with tiny tufts of gray hair coming out of his ears and eyebrows that needed a haircut.

  “Ten minutes late Mister Crime Buster. I can’t eat breakfast in public at this place. All those desperate old widows trying to replace the husbands they killed. I can’t say I’ve shaken hands with a detective. You ought to look into Lucy’s swindler husband,” Bushrod said, offering his hand without getting up from the breakfast table in Lucy’s room. The Wall Street Journal and New York Times were folded beside his plate of scrambled eggs and link sausage, which he had covered with Tabasco, also a habit of Sunderson’s.

  Lucy fluttered around, her face pink from embarrassment, stowing water and box lunches into a pretty canvas satchel. “Daddy, please.” She glanced furtively at Sunderson who ate hastily because Bushrod was now up and pacing near the door, muttering at the front page of the Journal.

  “They ought to guillotine fifty thousand brokers in Battery Park. Can’t you law people arrange it?”

  “This is the first workday of my retirement,” Sunderson said, amused at this antique nutcase, obviously the source of Lucy’s lifestyle. Lucy had called him a “desert rat,” someone who found the deserts of the Southwest obsessively interesting.

  “Find something to do full time or you’ll die on the vine,” Bushrod pronounced as if he were Moses.

  “I’m investigating the evil connection between religion, money, and sex,” Sunderson joked, relieved that his own father had been a mild, kind man.

  “Excellent. Send me the results.”

  With Bushrod at the wheel of a battered Range Rover they drove out toward Ina and through Saguaro National Park, with Lucy seemingly frozen in place in the center of the backseat, leafing through a bird book without seeing it. Bushrod explained the nature of the flora they passed, the dozens of species of cacti while Sunderson was glum about the relationship of adult children to their old parents. It was a different person in the backseat and Sunderson was inattentive to Bushrod, meditating on all the forms of bullying in the world. He had faulted his own parents for not letting his dog Ralph in the house. At bedtime he and his brother Robert would lower a basket on a rope from their second-story bedroom window. Ralph would jump in and they would pull him up to where he belonged. His dad finally caught on but it was his mother who was the prime mover of the no dogs rule. His father never mentioned their secret to her.

  They reached a desert two-track and drove several miles onto the Tohono O’odham reservation with Sunderson reflecting that the scrawny cattle would have elicited calls to the Humane Society in Michigan. Bushrod pulled up near a grove of shady paloverde and when Sunderson got out his bare arm brushed painfully against a cholla cactus and he yelped.

  “Nearly all the flora around here will poke a hole in you.” Bushrod pulled a hemostat out of a Dopp kit and pulled a dozen slender spines from Sunderson’s arm. “Keep an eye out for crotalids,” he said, heading up what looked like a hundred-foot-high pile of basaltic rock.

  “He means rattlesnakes,” Lucy said dully, her eyes moist. Her father was already up the steep incline out of earshot. “He’s driven me crazy since I could walk.”

  “That’s not a good way to live.” Sunderson supposed he was meant to follow Bushrod. Those from the upper Midwest are not born climbers except maybe when they’re younger and then only conifers with lots of branches. The landscape unnerved him and having seen rattlers on television and in the movies he was not thrilled at the idea of an encounter with a snake that could possibly kill him. He calmed himself thinking that though he was intensely perceptive on his home ground because of his job, when he traveled he was a bit of a goof. Once with Diane in Chicago he had taken a solo walk and had gotten a bit lost, remembering with difficulty their hotel for which she had made the arrangements.

  “Come along dear,” Lucy said scrambling up the rocks.

  His fears were leavened by her fine bottom in the khaki shorts though there remained a bit of the “What am I doing here?” By the time he reached the top he was breathing heavily while Bushrod and daughter had caught their breath. He had been troubled by the many snake drawings and carvings on the rocks. There were others but snakes were dominant. He seated himself beneath Lucy not failing to notice the nice underthighs beneath her loose-legged shorts.

  “A lot of speculation here, possibly about the roots of religion before sex and money came into play,” Bushrod joked. “Or maybe they all happen at once, an amusing idea. This place is called Cocoraque Butte, not really a butte is it? It’s a little close to town for the university boys to get interested in. They’d rather go north for the Navajo and Hopi or maybe down to Casas Grandes. In fact I’ve never seen anyone here in a dozen trips.”

  “Why all the renderings of snakes?” Sunderson was unc
omfortably leery that a rattler might ooze between the boulders they were sitting on.

  “Well, this kind of rockpile is habitat for rodentia and consequently for the snakes that eat them. You have to think that maybe primitive people were encamped here six thousand years ago and there were a prolific number of rattlers. Say that someone from the tribe or group, probably a child, had been killed by a rattler, which is comparatively small but immense in the power of their venom. You naturally would ascribe godlike powers to them. You propitiate the snake gods by drawing or carving them, a sort of prayer. You pray to God so that he won’t kill you and in hopes he’ll give good luck to your family or group. Of course this is a crude and speculative simplification.”

  “Where did the priests come in exactly? I mean I took an anthropology course but I don’t recall.” Sunderson tilted a bit for a better look at Lucy’s thighs. She perceived his intent and smiled at him, her first of the day.

  “Well, these early people were nomadic and usually had a medicine man, a shaman that stayed off to the side but priesthoods came to people that were established as farmers or, on the northwest coast, as farmers and fishermen. Farmers need rain and are suckers for religious leaders.”

  “They also offer consolation and advice,” Lucy added timidly.

  “Yours should have told you long ago to get rid of your nitwit husband.”

  “Please, Dad.”

  “Please, bullshit.” He turned to Sunderson. “You ever meet any of these people in their three-thousand-dollar suits? They’re the priests of money and pretend they have mystical knowledge about how to increase yours, which as you’ve seen recently gives them a chance to swindle everyone. Me, I’m strictly into land. You can read a realtor like a stop sign.”

  Sunderson immediately recognized that historically Bushrod was from the moneyed class, which bought all the land out of which a dime could be squeezed and even felt virtuous about their land rape.

  Lucy was in tears and began her slow descent, which Sunderson figured was more difficult because you had your gravity behind you. He looked off across the massive landscape to the west and southwest and then down at Lucy who had stumbled near the bottom.

  “She was a champ when young but then she became a brood mare to a fool. Early on I had him looked into. Word had it that he cheated his way through Choate and Yale.”

  “From this vantage point the Gadsden Purchase doesn’t seem very wise.” Sunderson was trying to avoid the subject of Lucy, upset by the cruelty of the father toward the daughter. He wondered at the number of parents he had known who bludgeon their children with their own ideals for them.

  “I read that the part of the Mexican government that sold it to us were crooks. There’s a fuss about it locally in the newspapers.” Bushrod stood up and stretched with crackling bones.

  “Yes, a man I’m looking for is involved.” Mona’s fax had said that Dwight was helping fuel this pointless controversy.

  “You said you were retired.”

  “It’s a hobby.”

  “For thirty years my hobby has been the desert. I don’t have time to wear it out.”

  Bushrod descended nimbly as if in a hurry while Sunderson backed himself down, bursting into a profuse sweat when he thought he heard a rattling down in a crevasse beneath him. If you looked northeast toward Tucson the sky was discolored by the smudge pot of civilization, while to the west there were the purple mountains majesty in a haze of heat. He peeked down the deep crevasse praying to the snake gods to have mercy.

  At the bottom Sunderson took the vehicle’s medicine kit away from Lucy who was ineptly trying to patch a skinned knee.

  “I’ve even doctored bullet wounds,” Sunderson said kneeling before her and cleaning the grit from her knee. Her skin was smooth and moist with sweat. The nut twinge was not called for but was there.

  “Nice legs, indeed. The only thing of value she got from her tosspot mother, whom I call Miss Absolut, were nice features to moderate my ugly ones. Did you ever shoot anyone? I bet that’s not an original question.”

  “Just over their heads to slow them down. A couple were shot by partners. It’s quite ugly.” He was thinking that if Lucy’s mother drank too much it was obvious who drove her there. It would be nice to slow the old fool down. “Once I entered a house south of Detroit with a partner. I knelt down to inspect a guy wheezing with a meat cleaver in his chest. He was blowing a pink bubble like a lung-shot deer. Another guy comes running out of a room with a butcher knife and my partner shot half his ass off with a .357.”

  “My God what an ugly story,” Bushrod said.

  They drove on another thirty miles to the southwest, and then on a two-track as bad as Sunderson had experienced reaching the Great Leader’s longhouse. They parked at the foot of a canyon that was shaded from the early winter sun. Sunderson guessed it was nearly eighty degrees and said so.

  “It gets to be one-fifteen-plus in June when we head back to Maine.” Bushrod set off at a brisk pace up the canyon. Sunderson tried to help Lucy carry the lunches.

  “You go ahead with Dad. I’m the squaw. He likes to lecture.”

  “You ever think of shooting him?” Sunderson teased.

  “Many times,” she replied archly.

  He caught Bushrod who walked up the canyon in silence and Sunderson wondered if it was the cleaver story that battened his gob. They stopped at a place shadowed by paloverde and ironwoods and signs of a fire ring.

  “I’ve camped here alone and been satisfied with the company. Before you showed up this morning Lucy said you were divorced?”

  “Yes, for three years.”

  “Willingly?”

  “No. It was my fault. She fled.”

  “You must not have much money.”

  “None to speak of. A pension. It’s enough.”

  “If you’re worth a lot you can’t drive them away unless they can get a big cut.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  It was only beginning to occur to Sunderson that he was in the company of high rollers, hard to perceive as they weren’t the least bit demonstrative like the midwestern rich. Having grown up so modestly, if not in poverty, he had done fairly well as a college graduate or so he thought. He had seen nothing enviable in the lives of richer people like Diane’s parents whose peripheries seemed blinded by their possessions. His lifelong obsession with fishing for brook trout was largely free.

  “She said you were from the Upper Peninsula. Way back when my family had a lot of timberland up that way and in Wisconsin and Maine of course. We were noble predators, to be sure,” he chuckled unattractively. “Later we were mostly into paper mills. I bailed out totally in the late eighties sensing that computers will make a lot of the paper supply obsolete. I’d wager the Boston Globe will go under. My land will always be land.”

  He was thinking that his suspicions were confirmed. Now Bushrod reminded him of a big-shot banker in Marquette who yelled over to him a few weeks before when he walked out of the Verling where he had had a fine whitefish dinner. The banker had been parked in front of the disco and someone had keyed his new Lexus leaving a deep five-foot scratch along the door panels. The man was in tears of rage and wanted immediate action. Sunderson had said that it was out of his territory and that the banker must call the Marquette city police, after which the man actually gasped in rage. Sunderson had suddenly decided to be nice and called the city police. The dispatcher had said, “That guy’s an asshole. We’ll let him wait a half hour.” Sunderson had said that the city cops would arrive momentarily and had walked off with a smile.

  Deeper, though, was a rawer place, which was the habitat of his thoughts about his father who had worked for comparative peanuts at the paper mill in Munising for over thirty years. His father, however, felt the job was a big upward step from cutting pulp logs in the woods when winter days could be thirty below zero or in June when the blackflies were insufferably thick. Sunderson had done it himself starting at age twelve on weekends when he had saved
enough for a used chain saw but it was brutally hard to make fifteen bucks in a ten-hour day. Bushrod was the dictator in the faraway office who owned the timberland, the pulp mill, and tens of thousands of slaves and acres.

  Lucy had laid out lunch on a sky-blue tablecloth and they sat on big rocks that someone who was very strong had dragged near the fire ring. There was an immediate wrangle because there was the wrong kind of mustard on Bushrod’s roast beef sandwich.

  “Dad, it’s not my fault.”

  “Then whose fault is it?”

  “You can have my chicken sandwich.”

  “My dear, are you crazy? You know I don’t eat chicken sandwiches.”

  Meanwhile Sunderson felt a palpable prickling of the skin on his neck, a sign that they were being watched. When he had noted many human tracks at the base of the canyon Bushrod had said the tracks were made by illegal Mexican migrants who had crossed the border. He raised his eyes up the canyon wall and there not thirty yards away was a petroglyph of a half-man, half-lizard looking down at them. Sunderson knew that no matter what he read, no matter what was explained to him, he would never truly understand what he was looking at. The language that might do so was permanently lost. But this alone did not add up to his neck tingle. Farther up the canyon, easily a hundred yards, there was a small man, or perhaps a boy, looking at them partially concealed by a boulder and a bush. The mental jump between lizard-man and the boy was unavailable to him.