Stumps of Mystery: Stories from the End of an Era

Saturday morning at the Pratts’ was about as depressing as family life can get. While their neighbors were either sleeping late or gearing up for a busy morning of grocery shopping or car washing or art class or sewing or yard work or housecleaning or working out or playdates, the Pratts were trying very hard not to kill each other. Bill, in a rage, swiped Dottie’s scrapbooking supplies off the kitchen counter onto the floor, then kicked them into the dining room. Patterned paper, stickers, scissors that cut decorative borders, markers, cellophane-wrapped packages of charms, all of it swirling in a furious scrap-crap whirlwind. He had woken on that cold morning with the warm idea of making chili and letting it simmer all day. But when he attempted to execute his plan, all hell broke loose: they were out of tomato sauce, the only ground beef in the house was frozen hard and apparently you’re supposed to soak the kidney beans overnight. “Why is all this shit in here?” he bellowed, tearing the leaves out of a new, unused photo album.

  Dottie, in the laundry room off the kitchen, put her hands over her ears and wept silently. She had worked four 12-hour graveyard shifts in a row at the nursing home while attending her CNA classes during the day. And the snowstorm the other night had forced her to stay at Riverview for most of the next day. She was beyond exhaustion, bordering on hysteria. It was her fault the kitchen was a mess, but gosh, couldn’t they do anything for themselves?

  “JARED,” Bill roared.

  Dottie scooted into the kitchen shushing him. “He’s been sick for three days. He needs to sleep.”

  Bill turned to glare at her, imperious, like the bull back home in Tillamook on her dad’s dairy farm. “That’s a load!” he spat. “The kid’s just lazy. If someone was making breakfast in the morning, he would have gotten up and gone to school.”

  Dottie was trying to compose a reply when the doorbell rang.

  Bill gave the scrap-crap one last kick and stomped off to the front door. Dottie knelt to examine the damage and pick up the mess, but she paused to listen to Bill speak. “Good morning, Roger.”

  She was wearing her after-shower turquoise chenille bathrobe, which was quite modest—a floor-length zip-up—but she wasn’t in any shape to be seen by anyone without her hair done and her face on. So she crept forward to hear more clearly.

  “That belongs to my son Kyle,” Bill was saying. “He’s serving in Iraq.”

  The Roger to whom he was speaking was Sheriff McElroy. “Do you know where it is?” the Sheriff asked.

  “Of course,” Bill answered. “It’s locked in the gunbox in the garage.” He walked out the front door and closed it behind him. Dottie scurried forward to peek out the front door’s high half-circle window. The sheriff’s black SUV was parked in the driveway. She stood on her tiptoes to see the men, but they had already rounded the corner to the garage that stuck out of the front of the house. She landed back down on her heels and swayed slightly, reaching out to the door to balance herself. Then she turned around to see Jared sitting in sweatpants and a t-shirt at the top of the staircase, his face pasty and creased. They stared at each other for a full 10 seconds. Then they both turned and went their separate ways without saying a word.

  Over on Hemlock, Candy rapped on the front door of Ellen’s house to pick her up for hot yoga—she hadn’t worked out since she heard about Herman and needed to regain some balance. Basil swung it open. “Hey Candy.” He stepped aside to let her through, then closed the door. He held a steaming cup of coffee and looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. “She’ll be down in a second.” He sat on the bottom step and gave Candy an appraising look—how could you not check out her ass in those clingy yoga pants—but she was much too glacial for his taste. Too blonde, too tall, too Viking; she could crush him between her thighs. He preferred a more earthy type with a lower center of gravity, like Ellen. Yet he liked Candy very much for her salty language and sense of humor and smarts, but mostly because she had befriended Ellen. “Have you heard any news?”

  Candy frowned and shook her head.

  “What was he doing up there anyway?” Basil asked.

  “I guess he was feeding some treesitters.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Are you surprised?” Candy, warming up for yoga, caught her right ankle in her right hand and pulled it up over her head.

  “No.” Basil said, watching her like she was some kind of wildlife passing through his backyard. “I got to know him while they were planning the wedding reception. He was definitely hands-on with the menu.” They both smiled. “But he wasn’t an asshole about it,” Basil continued.

  “So they’re having the memorial service there instead?”

  “Yeah,” Basil answered. “It totally makes sense. They had everything arranged just how they wanted it. It’s got to be sadder than hell for Matthew.”

  “No shit,” said Candy, stretching her other hamstring to impossible heights.

  “Who do you think did it?”

  “Yahoos,” she answered without hesitation.

  “Who?”

  “Yahoos. You know, dumb guys who get drunk and do stupid things like shoot people. I’m related to some of them.”

  “Huh.” Basil sat ruminating about yahoos until Ellen came clomping down the stairs and klonked him in the head with her rolled-up yoga mat. “Ow.” He rubbed his ear.

  “Oops,” she said, “Sorry, hon. Didn’t see you there.”

  After Sheriff Roger McElroy left the Pratts, he drove his Blazer slowly through Arbor Heights back out to Highway 13. He’d pulled up every license for a Remington 700 hunting rifle, then gone to each house to check them out. Nothing. In his 25 years as sheriff he’d only had a few homicides and they were clear-cut: husband-wife/murder suicide, a drunken bar fight, several vehicular homicides by drunks who made some very bad choices. This was the first case that had him truly baffled. The State Police were taking over, with help from the FBI because of the hate-crime possibility and Herman’s notoriety. But Roger thought it would be ever so sweet if he could solve the crime himself. He reached over for his cigarettes, like he did several times a day—but of course they weren’t there. He’d quit four years before. So he concentrated on the road, which was wet but not slick. The snow had melted Thursday afternoon as predicted, and there was no freezing rain on Friday as sometimes happened the night after snow. Freezing rain was the worst.

  As he made his way back up to the campground where they had found Herman’s body, he thought about how annoying it was to have the State Police and FBI take over his case. He knew he wasn’t the best sheriff in the world, maybe not even in the top 10 percent, but that was no reason not to give him any respect. They didn’t respect him because he had never had a chance to prove himself—nothing ever happened in Woodhill. But of course that wasn’t true anymore. The meth epidemic had changed all that. Problem was, Roger hadn’t realized how bad the problem was getting until it was completely out of control. It was like FEMA and Katrina. Now the town was thinking he was the worst sheriff in the world because citizens were getting robbed of their mail and identities and scrap metal and anything else that wasn’t nailed down. It was overwhelming. But if he solved a high-profile crime like Herman’s murder, maybe he could be redeemed—and re-elected.

  Turning at the Lost Mountain Campground road, he figured that if he walked around the scene a bit, he might see something everyone else missed. But when he pulled into the parking lot, he was stunned to find it crammed with vehicles. He walked the path back to the meadow. According to the medical examiner, Herman had been walking on the same path out of the woods. There was just one bullet that had pierced his heart, probably killing him pretty much instantly, which was what he told Lila and Bert after the autopsy. Bert seemed relieved by that information.

  When Roger cleared the first stand of trees, he saw why there were so many cars—a silent group of about thirty people were huddled next to the path. They turned and stared at Roger with vacant
eyes. On the spot Herman died lay candles burning in glasses, flowers, teddybears, cooking utensils, notes to Herman and notes to God. He stepped closer. There was a large, framed, arty photo of Herman in the middle of it all. Roger gazed at Herman’s gleaming black hair and glasses, his easy grin, that vintage Woodhill High letterman’s jacket he always wore—Bert once told Roger it had belonged to Herman’s dead brother Bobby.

  Roger recognized a few of the people there: a couple timber activists who’d been in county lock-up and a few folks from around town, but the majority were men he’d never seen before. Roger suspected they were gay because of their mustaches, and from Portland because of their impeccable clothing. He nodded at the crowd.

  “You can’t make us leave,” someone said loudly.

  Roger reared his head in surprise. “I have no intention of making you leave,” he replied.

  “Because we’re staying until you find the bastard who did this.”

  Roger touched the rim of his hat with his finger and turned away. He walked across the meadow to where the shot supposedly came from, avoiding the bigger patches of mud. A light rain was falling and the swollen gray clouds seemed close enough to touch. At fake Stonehenge, he entered the ring of cinderblocks and turned back to look at the vigil. He hadn’t been close to Herman; in fact, being around him made Roger feel uncomfortable because he never knew what to say to him. But it bothered him that one of Woodhill’s own was shot in cold blood. He looked down. The area had been picked clean by the State Police investigators, but he knew they‘d found shell casings from the rifle. The killer had likely stood right there. He looked back to where the mourners stood. Roger had missed enough deer in his life to wonder who could have gotten off such a good shot from that distance in the dark.

  As he was leaving, he stumbled upon a young woman in a filthy coat with her nose pressed up against a car window.

  “Lock yourself out?” he called.

  She jumped and looked at him. Her hair clung to her scalp and she had a raging damp scab above her right temple. Covering her head wound with her right hand, she backed away, staring at him with pink jittery eyes, her chapped lips twitching. A tweaker; one of the Burke girls. Her face looked to be about forty, which was impossible because her folks were forty. As she turned around to run into the woods, Roger yelled, “Catch you later.” He saw a television news van pulling into the lot so he jumped into his rig and hightailed out of there himself.

  Lila and Bert had both attended Woodhill Community Church their entire lives. It was the oldest church in town, founded in 1890 right in the middle of downtown. It had always been non-denominational, but Lila thought the new pastor, Morgan Meany, was pretty heavy on that Evangelical crap. She’d never discussed it with anyone; Pastor Meany had been there less than a year and she didn’t like to get involved with church politics. But Meany’s sermons had been sprinkled with references to the rapture and accepting Christ as a personal savior blah blah blah. He even had them praying for that moron George W. Bush, who she’d voted for but didn’t feel a need to pray for. She wouldn’t be surprised if one Sunday he pulled out some snakes to handle or started speaking in tongues. It was all that Bill Pratt’s fault. He had been the deacon to push Meany through, even flying him in from Tennessee on his own nickel to interview for the job.

  The church was built from huge old-growth logs. The interior, a collage of gleaming varnished wood, was the most beautiful room in town, Lila thought, especially when the sun streamed through the stained glass window high on the slanted east-end ceiling; the glass depicted a forest scene with lush green trees and a wandering stream under a vivid blue sky and brilliant yellow sun. The pews were worn fir, covered with a patina of smudges from five generations of Woodhill hands. She’d attended countless weddings there, including her own, and scores of funerals as well. Her folks, Bert’s folks, her brother Jim when he passed of lung cancer in ’94. Bobby. And now Herman.

  Bert had asked for the wheelchair that morning. And he needed extra help getting his suit on. She had thrown on her good dress and brushed her hair. Looking in the mirror, she was shocked by how old she was. Her face was dried up like a mushroom in summer and her hair completely white. When had that happened? She had never paid attention to her looks, and gazing into her own tired old eyes, she didn’t give a beaver’s butt that she was ancient. In fact, she was relieved. She was ready to leave this hard cold earth, the sooner the better. She just had to wait for Bert to go first.

  Herman’s funeral was scheduled to follow immediately after the regular Sunday morning service. Lila, ever efficient, thought it would be easier on Bert to travel to church just once that weekend. The Rossi Brothers hadn’t put any notice in the paper, at her request, so the only people attending the funeral would be members of the congregation who chose to stay. After the regular service ended, most of the crowd streamed out. She wasn’t surprised; Herman hadn’t been to church in 20 years. She knew that most of them disagreed with his lifestyle, and she understood. If it had been someone else’s gay son, and she didn’t have a gay son herself, she probably wouldn’t have stayed either. On the other side of the aisle, the Pratt family stayed. Lila glared at Bill, the fat old bully. How dare he? He had to have some sort of hidden agenda. Dottie was wearing some hideous green thing that looked like Omar designed it for Sears. And their youngest boy was positively catatonic.

  She wasn’t sure Matthew was going to show up, but he did, dressed in a somber gray suit. He hung back in the doorway until Lila beckoned him forward. “Help me move Bert up front,” she said, gathering her purse and coat to move to the front row. Bert had dozed off during the sermon. Even the closing hymn, a lackluster version of “What A Friend We Have in Jesus,” didn’t stir him. She wiped the drool off his chin with a tissue and let him nap a while longer while she stewed on the fact that all the hymns Meany chose had an annoying Southern twang.

  Al Rossi pushed in the casket. She had chosen a natural oak with brass handles. It looked right. She had seen Herman at the funeral home, lying in the coffin, wearing his letterman jacket. He looked like a wax figure, and after a moment, she realized what was wrong. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. She thought about asking Al to set them on Herman’s face, but then realized she was being silly. No one else was going to see him. Bert didn’t want to, Matthew didn’t want to. Now, standing in the church with the coffin sealed, she wished she had told Al to put Herman’s glasses on him.

  In the back pew, Olivia Bradford sat perfectly still in her navy blue suit, her hands folded neatly in her lap, a box of assorted homemade cookies next to her. She had attended Woodhill Community until the new Pastor started getting on her nerves, then she switched to Grace Methodist. But she had made a point to find out when Herman’s service was.

  Sitting there waiting, she thought back to when she had found him. It was such an unexpected thing. The feeling of nudging his cold body with her foot had stuck with her: hard and stiff with a little give—it was like kicking death itself. She was still completely shocked by the torrent of emotion that had coursed through her when she discovered it was Herman, causing her to burst into tears in the middle of that silent meadow. She had hardly known the man. Yet she was oddly relieved that her body had reacted that way. All her life she had felt abnormal, like she didn’t have any feelings at all. She was almost proud that she had grieved over another human. In a way, Herman’s death had changed her life.

  Pastor Meany returned to the pulpit dressed in a shiny black robe, his acne-scarred face impassive; his greasy brown hair ridged with fresh comb marks. He had never met Herman and Lila had asked him not to give a eulogy. She just wanted him to pass the body over to the great beyond so they could plant him in the ground and get it over with. He cleared his throat. “Friends and neighbors. We’re here today to deliver the soul of Herman Hoffmeister into the everlovin’ arms of our almighty savior Jesus Christ.”

 
Lila sighed. Bert began to stir. “Mreghee!” he nearly shouted.

  Lila shushed him. “We’re at Herman’s funeral!” she whispered. He wailed, and then wailed louder when he saw the casket in front of him. Matthew jumped up and squatted beside Bert’s chair, patting his good arm.

  Pastor Meany cleared his throat. “Jesus loves all his children, regardless of their, ahem, sins,” he pronounced.

  Matthew’s head snapped up to look at Meany.

  “Jesus died for our sins,” he continued, “When you invite Jesus into your heart, you’re cleansed of your sins. When you choose Jesus Christ as your personal savior and give your life to the Lord, He places you in God’s book of life. Let us pray for our brother Herman so that after death he may find peace in the hands of Jesus. Let us pray for our brother who strayed in life so he may be found by our shepherd. Let us pray that he is no longer tempted by sin. Let us pray he is in the arms of our Savior.”

  There was a black woman Lila didn’t know crying her eyes out in the back pew. Bert was yowling like an injured seal. The Pratts were kneeling with their eyes closed; Bill had a constipated look on his face. Matthew craned his neck to look behind Bert’s wheelchair and catch Lila’s eye. They stared at each other for a moment, then she snorted and they both burst out laughing, trying hard to keep quiet. The harder she tried to stop, the more uncontrolled her laughter became. She felt something dislodge deep inside her and it all came tumbling out. She covered her face with her hands and laughed and laughed and laughed. The louder Bert wailed, the harder she laughed until she was doubled over, tears streaming. She laughed until she heard Herman’s voice clear as water: “It’s so nice to see you having fun, Ma.”

  After the service, which was mercifully short, Al Rossi wheeled Herman out to the hearse to take him up to the cemetery. Bert and Lila had planned to go up there by themselves, but she decided to ask Matthew to go with them. He seemed to be a comfort to Bert.

  Matthew pushed Bert to the rear of the church feeling purged in an odd way. The service was something out of a Fellini movie. He hoped that Herman, wherever he was, was watching with glee. Matthew’s mother Bo had arrived the day before from Encino and instantly began cooking Thai food. She was a tiny woman with sharp features that hadn’t softened with age. She moved liked a whirlwind dressed in a hot pink pantsuit. Matthew ate gratefully; it was the comfort food of his youth and he had been utterly empty. “The spirit sticks around for three days,” she told him as he shoveled in pad pet, “maybe longer if he wasn’t expecting to go. Maybe he’s still around.” Matthew hadn’t told Bo about the funeral. She would have wanted to come and he knew Lila wouldn’t have needed that extra strain. He was the first to admit his mom was intense.

  As each day passed, Matthew felt slightly less raw. Having his mom there was good. The laughing fit he had in the church had served to slightly lift the numbness. As they approached the church door, the weeping black woman stood and spoke softly. “Mrs. Hoffmeister,” she said gravely, “my name is Olivia Bradford. I’m the ranger who found your son in the meadow.” They stood silently; Lila eyed Olivia’s impeccable outfit. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” Olivia continued.

  “Thank you,” Lila said. Olivia handed her the box. “I made you some cookies.”

  “Thank you,” Lila said. “I like cookies.”

  Bert said something garbled.

  “Bert likes them too,” Lila said.

  They all walked out of the church to watch the Rossis load the casket into the hearse that was parked at the curb, but they were completely unprepared for the news people lying in wait—weirdly, they were silent. The video cameras were on and some still cameras flashed, but no one said a word. Then they noticed the picketers: a small group of mostly young and a few very old men carrying signs that carried such slogans as “Thank You God For Killing the Gays” and “The Only Good Queer is a Dead Queer.” Matthew gasped and Lila frowned. “Ignore them,“ she muttered, “they’re trash.”

  The Pratts came out behind them followed by Pastor Meany. They stood in a quiet clump while the Rossis stowed the casket and opened the limousine’s back door for Lila and Bert. Matthew wheeled Bert over and helped him into the car, as Al Rossi folded up the wheelchair and stashed it into the trunk. “Come with us,” Lila said. And Matthew simply climbed in after them.

  As they pulled away, Matthew saw Bill Pratt head over to the news crews, then he noticed a state trooper crossing the street to talk to Pratt. He pointed out the scene to Lila and Bert. “Pratt should be arrested on principle,” Lila said. “Him and his fat ass.”

  The rain continued all through the night and into the next morning with no sign of letting up. Ellen woke to the thrumming on the roof, a sound that had become very familiar that winter. Basil stirred next to her, then rolled closer and slid his warm hand along her hip. She lay perfectly still and hoped he would fall back asleep. When his breathing became deep and regular again, she slipped out of bed and padded downstairs. She wore what she imagined every woman in Oregon wore to bed in the winter: flannel pants, a long-sleeved t-shirt and heavy cotton socks.

  After starting the coffee, she went out front to get the paper, not even bothering to put on a coat. She had grown so used to the rain, she hardly noticed it anymore. Candy said she would be a true Oregonian when she could drive in the rain without a second thought, but Ellen knew that would take a while, like years. She dashed out to the end of the driveway, picked up the plastic-wrapped paper and made it back inside within just a few seconds. She whacked the paper against the door jamb to knock the water and slugs off, then decided to just peel the sopping plastic bag back and leave it on the front stoop like a used condom. She shook the rain from her fingers and wiped them on her pants as she walked back to the kitchen. She liked getting up early and enjoying the silence; it was so different from Manhattan where you knew everything about your neighbors including their bowel movement schedule.

  She spread the paper out on the table and got a cup of coffee though the pot hadn’t finished brewing yet. She found she liked it good and strong—she’d gotten that from Candy. But when she sat down and read the front page she gasped. The lead story was really the last thing she expected.

  Youth arrested in Hoffmeister case

  Police arrested a 13-year-old boy Sunday in connection with the death of a Woodhill restaurateur. Herman Hoffmeister’s body was discovered in the Lost Mountain Campground on February 2, 2007. The River County Medical Examiner’s office confirmed Friday that Hoffmeister died of a gunshot wound to his heart. The detained youth is a Woodhill resident and apparently knew Hoffmeister. He was booked into the Calapooia Juvenile Detention Facility and his arraignment is scheduled for Monday, February 6. Sources close to the case say River County prosecutors may ask the court to try the minor as an adult due to the nature of the crime. “We’re confident justice will be served,” said River County District Attorney Elena Mendoza.

  Hoffmeister, who was 41 at the time of his death, was the proprietor of Mack’s Diner, a popular Woodhill gathering spot that has been in the Hoffmeister family for a century. A celebration of Hoffmeister’s life is scheduled for February 14, 7:30 pm at the Woodhill Hotel.

  Ellen stood up and walked to the front hallway to look at the Ruiz’s house, trying to determine if Candy was up yet. At that moment the phone rang and she flew into the kitchen to get it.

  “Did you see the paper?” Candy asked when she picked up.

  “It makes it sound like he was some sort of child molester.”

  “No.” Candy sounded utterly exasperated. “It makes him sound like he was gaybashed, ‘the nature of the crime?’ What could have happened? Who could have done it?”

  “I don’t know any 13-year-old boys.”

  “I’ll bet it was a yahoo,” Candy declared. “A stupid little yahoo-in-training.”

  Basil entered the kitchen, blindly stumbling for the coffee pot. Ellen s
topped him and pointed at the paper on the table. “Can you find out anything?” she asked Candy.

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Ellen turned off the phone and watched Basil read the article. He shrugged and returned to his quest for caffeine.

  “Can you believe that?” she demanded. “Some kid killed him.”

  “There’s obviously more to the story,” Basil said quietly.

  “Well, what do you think happened?”

  He shrugged again and sat down at the table with his cup.

  Ellen shook her head and went to the fridge for some juice. How could he not be outraged? Of course there was more to the story. She wanted to discuss it in detail, pick apart theories, speculate, gossip, debate possibilities. Damn him. Why wasn’t he Candy?

  Calapooia Juvenile Detention Facility sat on the eastern outskirts of Woodhill. It was built as a state women’s prison in 1959, then turned over to the county in ‘89 when they built an even larger women’s prison. Jared Pratt had heard about it of course. It had quickly become a legend among Woodhill teens and a joke among his friends: “Watch out, you’ll end up as some dude’s bitch at Calapooia.” And suddenly there he was, about to become some dude’s bitch at Calapooia. There was no dude there at the moment, but Jared knew it would only be a matter of time. He sat on the hard twin bed in the empty room where he had sat since the state trooper had brought him in during the night. He hadn’t slept at all. He hadn’t even used the toilet.

  The day before, after sitting through church for what seemed like hours, through regular church and Herman Hoffmeister’s funeral, the cops were waiting for his family when they walked out. He and his mom sat in the car, watching his dad argue with two state troopers. There were reporters everywhere, pressing in on the scene like they were trying to eavesdrop. Jared thought at first they were going to arrest Bill and take him away, but after some discussion, his dad got in the car and slammed the door. He sat breathing heavily. Jared sank lower into the back seat of the Explorer.

  “What’s going on?” Dottie asked.

  “We’re going over to the police station,” he said tersely. “For some reason, they think Jared was up at the campground Wednesday night. They say he shot Herman Hoffmeister with Kyle’s hunting rifle.”

  Jared flushed so deeply he thought his ears were going to ignite. Dottie gave a small squeal and instantly started weeping. “Why? Why?”

  Bill turned around to glare at Jared. “Apparently his gangbanger pal told his mother they were up there shooting, and she told the police.” He reached into the back seat and knocked Jared hard on the side on his head. “What the hell did you do?” He hit him again.

  “Stop it,” Dottie shrieked.

  Jared tried to scrunch into the corner and Bill leaned farther, punching him, again and again. “I didn’t know,” he yelped, “I didn’t do anything.” But Bill kept whacking him until a sharp rapping on the window caused them all to freeze. Bill looked over at the sheriff standing there, motioning him to roll down the window.

  “Bill,” he said, looking at all three of them. “Why don’t I drive the boy over?”

  Bill slumped against the steering wheel. “Get out then.”

  Jared climbed out of the back seat. His mom stared at him, tears running down her face, but his dad wouldn’t look. As soon as he shut the Explorer’s door, his dad roared off.

  “C’mon, son,” Sheriff McElroy said. “They’ll meet us there.”

  For the next ten hours, Jared had told them over and over what had happened. Chuy’s mom had gone to Portland for some conference thing. They had taken some speed and borrowed her car—Chuy driving. Then they decided to go up to Lost Mountain to shoot Kyle’s rifle. Then they came home. Chuy dropped him off. Neither of his parents was home. He put the rifle back, locked the gunbox and went to bed by 11pm, just like he was supposed to.

  Then they asked him tons of weird questions about Herman and if they knew each other and if Jared was gay and if he knew any other gay people and what he thought about gay people. Did he hate gay people? Did he think being gay was a sin? Did he ever go to internet chat rooms? Did he ever go to gay porn sites? On and on until finally Jared broke down: “I’m sorry!” he yelled, “I’m sorry! Herman was nice to me. He always gave me a cinnamon roll.” Then he had sobbed into his hands.

  The cop who had taken him to Calapooia said his parents would probably bail him out within a couple hours, but he’d also said something about juvie probably being the safest place for him—a lot of people were upset about Herman’s death, he said. Jared felt like he had been in that cell forever. What if his folks didn’t post his bail? What if they made him stay in there for the rest of his life? He was cold but the blanket was scratchy and smelled like medicine. He hugged himself and waited, wishing he could talk to Kyle. Wondering if he would ever see Kyle again. Wondering if he would ever see daylight again. Wondering whether Chuy was in trouble, too. Wondering if his mom was starting a scrapbook about him. Thinking about everything except the fact that he had killed somebody.

  By the time Sheriff McElroy stopped into Mack’s Diner for breakfast Monday morning, everyone already knew that Jared Pratt was the kid arrested for Herman’s death. The television news cameras had caught Bill Pratt pounding his son in the back seat of the Explorer the afternoon before and the morning news couldn’t stop playing it—even the national shows like Today and Good Morning America had got hold of it. Jared’s image was pixilated of course, but everyone knew it was him. All the people sitting at Mack’s counter were mesmerized by the television up in the corner.

  “You look good up there on the small screen,” Marshall Magruder said to Roger as he sat on the next stool.

  Roger watched himself standing in the rain, knocking on the Explorer’s window, getting Jared out of there. The newscasters were asking why he hadn’t arrested “the father” for beating his child.

  “I guess it isn’t good enough that we solved the mystery,” Roger said. “If I’d just found out my kid had shot a local hero, I probably would have reacted the same way.” He was still feeling burned that the Woodhill Police were getting all the credit for solving the crime merely because the other kid’s mom had dragged him into the police station instead of the sheriff’s office.

  “Are they calling it a hate crime?” Geri asked, briskly slapping down a new place setting and pouring him a cup of coffee.

  “We’ll know today,” he answered.

  “What’s your feeling?” Marshall asked.

  “I’m convinced it was an accident,“ Roger answered. “I don’t think the kid had any idea Herman was even up there.”

  “Pretty convenient for Bill Pratt,” Geri said, arching a painted-on eyebrow. “He got rid of his campaign rival and a homo in one fell swoop.”

  “Wow, Geri. You are so cynical,” Marshall said.

  “Tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing,” Geri replied.

  Oregon was like a huge sponge that became sopped and squishy through the winter into the spring and by fall was dry and hard. Year in and year out; wet to dry, dry to wet. And once in a great while, when it got really wet, it overflowed. It had rained hard in Woodhill for nine days straight, and every little stream and creek was gushing like an open faucet. The Willamette River was as wide and muddy as the Mississippi. Mud prone to sliding was mudsliding. Basements prone to leaking had leaked. People prone to depression were depressed. It was well on the way to being a record rainfall for February, and everyone in town was feeling the effects.

  In the Woodhill Hotel Ballroom, Jessie looked around one last time. The room, which had been refurbished to look turn-of-the-last-century, was beautiful, filled with red and white roses and flickering candles. The gas log in the fireplace cast a warm glow against the sparkling glassware set up at the bar. Bo had come in earlier and hung strings of colorful tissue paper Buddhist prayer flags above the dance floor.
Jessie and the waitstaff had set 30 round tables with eight place settings each. There were tubs full of champagne bottles on ice, as well as cases of red and chilled white Ricci Reserve shipped up from California. Back in the kitchen, the crew frantically prepared food for the evening. Not only was the hotel having its biggest private function ever, it was Valentine’s Day, the busiest night of the year.

  Jessie had asked to work the private gig, Herman Hoffmeister’s Celebration of Life, though she may have gotten better tips working the dining room with its special overpriced menu. Herman had meant a lot to her. He had hired her at the diner when she’d had hardly any work experience at all. She didn’t do too well in that busy environment, but Herman had always been very sweet to her—much nicer than those hideous old lady waitresses who hated her. He wished her well when the Woodhill Hotel reopened and she went to work there.

  She paused to look at some of the photos placed around the room: Herman’s senior picture, his face pale and pimply, dark hair a feathered mullet; Herman in a toque working behind the line at a San Francisco bistro; Herman and Matthew sunburned and tipsy at a Hawaiian Luau. She turned as she heard the huge stained glass door from the lobby open and saw Dante Gutierrez, a guy she knew from the diner. He was the janitor, she remembered, a sweet guy.

  “Hi,” she said. “Dante, right?”

  He nodded, tugging at his collar. He wore a V-neck blue sweater over a white shirt and red tie.

  “I’m Jessica,” she continued. “I used to work at the diner.”

  “I remember,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. She moved toward him and put her hand on his arm. At that moment, Matthew London came in, dressed in a perfectly cut tuxedo.

  “Wow,” she called to him. “You look positively dashing.”

  He grinned shyly and looked down at himself. “It’s Armani,” he said. “Herman insisted.”

  “I can see why,” she replied.

  Matthew experienced another stab of grief. Since Herman died, those brutal moments had been endless, like earlier that evening when he went to the closet to get dressed and saw their identical wedding tuxedoes hanging side by side. It took all his will to be there at the hotel, ready to greet the others. Two weeks was not enough time. He was still mad as hell at Herman for leaving him, and he was still unspeakably sad to be without him, and furious at the stupid kid who had shot him.

  By 8 pm, the room was filled with people in formalwear, or as formal as it gets in Woodhill. During excessive rainy spells, many locals didn’t even bother to get dressed—they just headed on out to Norm’s Thriftway in their pajamas. Nobody cared. It wasn’t the fashion capital of the world. But most people did get gussied up for important events, such as Herman Hoffmeister’s Celebration of Life.

  Marshall Magruder wore his good blue suit; he‘d had to dig through Pauline-packed boxes in his parents’ garage to find it, then rush it to the cleaners for pressing. He scanned the room. There were many people from his and Herman’s class at Woodhill High, and many people he didn’t know. The mood seemed conflicted, somber and festive at the same time. His best friend Larry towered by the fireplace with his wife, Nadine. Marshall made his way over.

  “Did you save me a seat?”

  Larry nodded. “This is the most fucked-up high school reunion ever.” Nadine elbowed him.

  “Hi Marsh,” she said.

  “You look nice, Nadine.” Marshall recognized her emerald dress from countless other functions. He thought Larry had totally lucked-out with his wife. Nadine was very easy going, a soccer mom satisfied with family life, and carelessly cute with countless freckles and ginger coloring. He had been spending a lot of time over at their noisy house lately.

  “Thanks,” she replied, “you too.” She looked over his shoulder. “Did you see who just walked in?”

  Marshall turned to see Pauline in the doorway. She was deeply tanned from her recent Caribbean cruise with her sister. Her blonde hair was styled in a stiff pageboy and her electric blue satin sheath fit her just so. He shook his head, wondering why it had taken him so long to see her for what she was. “Let’s get a drink,” he suggested.

  Pauline scanned the crowd; it seemed like everyone in town was there. And all looking so glum. Her first thought when she heard about Herman getting killed was that the freakshow of a wedding was not going to happen after all. She didn’t really have anything against the gays—she even had a few as clients—but they didn’t have to shove it in everyone’s faces. She had decided to come to the Celebration of Life because it was the biggest social event of the winter, and a public event at that. It was time for her to move on after the separation, find a new mate. There were plenty of gorgeous men there, but Pauline wasn’t sure which of them were gay. Her eyes rested on a nice looking silver-haired man across the room. Tom Ricci. She had met him once at some function or another. And he was a widower with two kids—he might not want any more. Yes, she thought, he would be very suitable indeed. She really didn’t like being single one bit.

  Two hours later, dinner had been served—Beef Wellington or king salmon in parchment—and the wine had flowed freely. The crowd was getting well lubricated. Servers prepared to circulate the dessert cart: plates of Red Velvet cake or heart-shaped chocolate truffles. Ellen was stag because Basil had to help in the kitchen that busy night. She sat at a table with Candy (of course) and Mark, as well as Mike and Kathy Burke, Tom Ricci, Pauline the real estate agent and a gentlemen from Portland who knew Herman from the Cascade Aids Project, a charity that Herman had supported for years. The table had been cleared; just wine glasses and crumpled napkins remained.

  Matthew passed by and Candy grabbed his arm. “Is that your mom sitting with Lila?” He looked over and saw Bo and Lila with heads together, deep in conversation. “Yeah,” he told Candy. “They’ve bonded over cooking. Not recipes, but theory.” He sounded slightly toasted.

  “What’s going to happen to the diner?” Pauline asked.

  Matthew shrugged. “It went back to Lila and Bert. They’re thinking about selling it to the Pitzers.”

  “What?” Ellen exclaimed. She was more than slightly toasted.

  “Yeah,” Matthew continued. “There isn’t anyone else to run it. The Hoffmeisters are all gone.”

  “Oh man!” Candy groaned, looking around the table, her blue eyes wide. “The Hoffmeisters are all gone.”

  “They could do worse than the Pitzers.” Mark observed. Matthew nodded, moved aside for the dessert cart and continued on to the next table.

  “Did you hear the Pratt kid pled out today?” Candy leaned forward.

  “I saw that on the news,” Tom Ricci said. “Involuntary manslaughter. A year in Calapooia and probation until he’s 21.”

  “I was there,” Candy said. “Bill Pratt completely lost it when they took the kid away. He was crying like a woman.”

  Kathy Burke scooted her chair in. “Really?”

  “Yes,” Candy said. “Sobbing. It was sad.”

  Mike and Kathy looked at each other, amazed by Candy’s report.

  “He was crying?” Mike asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” Candy nodded. “I was there.”

  “Wow.” Kathy shook her head. “Wow, I would have paid to see that.”

  Ellen saw the dessert cart next to her. “Oh yeah,” she cried. “Chocolate candy. I love candy.”

  After dessert, Matthew took a place at the microphone and tapped his champagne glass with a spoon. He was usually quite nervous when speaking in front of people (Herman had been their front man), but on that night his nerves were tempered by wine and grief. When the room quieted, he spoke. “Thank you all so much for coming tonight. I really feel Herman’s presence and I appreciate all the kind thoughts and funny stories you’ve been sharing with me all night. Karaoke will begin soon, but first, I know many of you wanted to say something about Herman, so I thought we could all
take turns up here. I’ll start with a toast.” He raised his glass. “Herman was a good son, a good businessman, a good friend—just an all-around good guy. That’s how he rolled, with that crazy retro look of his. He loved his parents. He loved me. He loved this town. And he loved life. So, here’s to Herman!”

  The crowd cried “cheers” and applauded. “Okay, who’s next? And if anyone mentions the rain or says ‘Heaven is weeping for Herman’ I will throw you out on your ass.”

  An hour later, Mike Burke finished his brief story about the sixth grade field trip to the state capital when Herman rushed up to the senate floor podium and began singing “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and it seemed he would be the last to speak. The celebrants had heard that Herman was generous, flexible and creative. He was a good singer, good tipper, good joke-teller and good impressionist. He was a careful driver. He was interested in others and meticulous about his grooming. He liked entertaining and campaigning and collecting money for charities. He knew a lot about outer space. He was a kind landlord with a humane late-rent policy. He was here and he was queer, he was a uniter not a divider.

  “Shit,” muttered Pauline, her elbows on the table and chin in her hands. “Even I’d marry him.”

  It seemed as though there was nothing more to say about Herman, but then a scruffy young couple came forward. The woman was hugely pregnant and her head was shaved; unlike her legs. The man had an abnormally large cranium, but looked otherwise normal. They were dressed in wrinkled wool clothes that seemed even more grubby against the fancy twinkle lights and tablecloths. “My name is Emily Takeda,” the woman said softly, “and I’m the reason Herman is dead.” She finished the sentence in a high shriek and the somewhat drunken unruly crowd became silent.

  The guy leaned over and quickly said, “Actually, that’s not really true. We’re forest activists and Herman brought us food.”

  “They’re the treesitters!” someone shouted.

  “I’m Randall Stine,” he said. “Herman was just helping a pregnant woman. Isn’t that just like him?”

  The group seemed to grudgingly agree, but Candy had seen crowds go bad when she worked for the ACLU. She knew many people blamed the treesitters for Herman’s death: If they hadn’t been up there, Herman wouldn’t have been at the campground. She had the wherewithal to hustle up there to shut them up.

  “Herman did what no one else could do,” Emily said tearfully. “He got me out of that tree just like everyone’s been telling me to do since I got pregnant.”

  Candy reached the podium just as Emily gasped loudly, eyes wide, and covered her mouth with her hands.

  “Oh boy,” said Candy, looking at the floor, “looks like your water broke.”

  Kathy Burke, the day manager at Norm’s Thriftway, shouted tipsily “Clean up on aisle five!” and everyone laughed.

  At midnight, Basil returned to the hotel after he had taken the treesitters to the hospital amid much excitement on their part: “If it’s a boy, we’re going to name him Herman,” Emily cried giddily on her way out. “And Hermione if it’s a girl.”

  He looked in on the party to find half the celebrators of life had gone home. But the remaining 100 or so were getting funky on the dance floor while they took turns at the Karaoke machine. He was shocked to see Ellen singing a breathy version of “Close to You,” then even more surprised that she was singing it to Candy and Mark who were tango-ing around her. But then he realized Ellen was uncharacteristically drunk off her ass. He stood there a minute, watching her sway, knowing how impossible she was going to be the next day.

  Jessie rushed up to him, her face flushed and eyes nearly glowing. “You are not going to believe this!” She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him out to the front lobby where about 20 costumed teenaged girls milled about. One of them approached Basil and asked, “Can you help us?”

  “Uh, maybe.” He squinted at her. She was a tall skinny girl, her brown hair in a ponytail on the back of her head, her face long like a colt. “What’s up?” Basil asked.

  “We’re the WHS girls basketball team,” she said. “Herman hired us for his big finish.”

  “Right on,” Basil said.

  The party was breaking up. Bert Hoffmeister, wheelchair parked in the corner, snored. Lila yawned and looked for her purse. Ellen threw up in a garbage can behind the bar, trying not to attract any attention. Tom Ricci considered going home with Pauline Magruder for a half-second, then winced. Pauline scribbled her home number on the back of one of her business cards. Kathy and Mike Burke continued to dance though the music had stopped; they were celebrating some earlier news that their daughter Lacey was in jail—they had seen her and finally knew where she was. Marshall and Larry stood by the fireplace and watched Pauline hand Tom Ricci her card, then laughed when she turned away and he crumpled it in a ball. But Marshall noticed a strained look in Pauline eyes. He wondered if she was about to crack.

  Matthew helped his mother into her coat. He dreaded going home, even though Bo was still there. She had to go back to Encino sometime and he had to go back to work. Life would continue. People had been asking him all night if he planned to stay in Woodhill, when he couldn’t even plan to eat breakfast. And where was he supposed to go? His home was Herman. He looked around for another glass of wine.

  Suddenly, the lights turned back down and a spotlight hit the giant disco ball hanging from the ceiling, sending shards of light over the group. The DJ’s disembodied voice echoed over the PA: “Ladies and gentleman, and now, the highlight of the evening, a final farewell from Mr. Herman Hoffmeister.” Herman‘s inimitable voice rose in the darkness, “Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars.” Twenty glowing aliens bobbed in: very tall, thin, shining figures with huge heads and weird eye slits. The crowd gasped, then broke out in enthusiastic applause. Two aliens took Matthew by the arms and danced him into the group. His mouth was hanging open. Herman sang on: “Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.”

  Lila stood stock-still, staring as the music and aliens swirled in front of her. “In other words, hold my hand. In other words, kiss me.” Then she realized that Herman had arranged the entire spectacle before he died. It was one of his favorite songs—she’d heard him sing it a million times—he must have recorded it ahead of time. If the wedding reception had gone forward, Herman and Matthew would be leaving for their honeymoon at that moment. It was so like him to want to end the party with a surprise bang. No one had cancelled it. Thank God no one had cancelled it.

  Bert woke up and roared. Lila grabbed his good hand and squeezed. “Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more.” Candy and Mark joined the Burkes on the dance floor. An alien pulled Bo into the group and whirled her about. “You are all I hope for, all I worship and adore.” Tom Ricci wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Marshall crossed the room and put his arm around Pauline. She had never, in the 20 years they had been together, looked at him with such relief. Jessie, clearing dirty glasses from the tables, saw Dante sitting on the sofa next to the fireplace, sobbing with his elbows on his knees. She went over, sat next to him and patted his back. “In other words, please be true.” Lila felt her heart open with gratitude, washing away a painful dark crust of regret. Bert was bawling like a baby. And Matthew smiled like he had just torn open the best most unexpected gift ever. The rest of the crowd swayed together as they sang the final line with Herman: “In other words, I love you.”

  Outside, the rain poured; how could heaven not weep? Someone circling above the town in a helicopter or a flying saucer wouldn’t see a thing because of the thick layer of water-swollen clouds. But even so, Woodhill was there. Woodhill would always be there.