“No?”

“I don’t want revenge. I don’t want to hurt her. Truly I don’t. I just want to ask her … why. And I want to see her face when she answers.”

“Just like any man who’s been cuckolded.”

I smiled. “Cuckold? That’s a little eighteenth century isn’t it?”

Cynthia smiled back. “I’ve been working to improve my vocabulary.”

We ate a couple of glazed turkey fillets I had simmered in ground ginger, Worcestershire sauce, and orange marmalade while we listened to the ball game on the radio. We didn’t have much to say to each other. Afterward, we watched the rain from opposite ends of a wicker couch in my three-season porch. Every time the thunder boomed and the lightning flashed, we moved a little nearer to each other until there was no distance between us at all.

sixteen

The Northland had grown considerably greener in the three weeks since I last drove through it, and the natives were dressed as if they actually believed the rumors that winter was over. I, for one, was skeptical. Some areas in the Northland reported snowfall on Memorial Day. I didn’t witness this event personally since I was visiting my parents in Fort Myers, Florida, a place where winter never comes, and spring is marked not with rain and slush but with the arrival of catchers and pitchers at the training camp of the Minnesota Twins. Still, I believed the reports. In the Northland, a snowball’s chance in July wasn’t all that remote.

“The Northland” is the title given by advertisers—“Visit the Northland’s number-one used-car dealership”—to a rather vaguely defined region in northern Minnesota and Wisconsin noted for its countless lakes and forests. And if you hail from Des Moines, I could see how the place might seem to embody the sense of wilderness that the sobriquet implies. However, if you hail from the true north, from Fairbanks or Prince Albert or even Edmonton, the Northland seems more like a suburb of Kansas City. Certainly the traffic jam I joined when I approached Deer Lake had an urban familiarity. It took twenty minutes to creep from the city limits sign to the intersection at the center of town.

“What’s going on?” I asked the county cop who was directing traffic. He growled at me and waved me through the intersection. I drove in the direction his hand pointed, obedient as any driver’s ed student, and followed the traffic without knowing where it was taking me until I came to the Deer Lake branch of the U.S. Post Office. I escaped the caravan and pulled into the parking lot.

I noted the post office’s address: 4001 Capitol Street. I reread the address I had written in my notebook for Alison: 4001 Capitol Street, #314. A mail drop. Give the lady credit; she understood the value of a mail drop. Her mail comes to 4001 Capitol Street, P.O. Box 314. She then picks it up or it’s forwarded on to her; her identity and location are known only to the postal employees, who are legally bound to keep it to themselves. However, like I said before, Alison had genius but not experience, otherwise she might have known that the U.S. Postal Service Manual contains a provision that clearly states that the post office must disclose the street address of a boxholder to someone needing the address to serve process. You can make good money as a process server. I’ve done a little of it myself.

I went inside and waited in the short line at the counter until it was my turn. The postal clerk spoke with a natural courtesy very few public employees possess. She was short and thin and black, probably the only African-American I’ve seen in the lily-white Northland outside of Duluth who wasn’t on vacation. She laughed at my surprise at finding her there and explained that she was the only black and one of the few women to work for the post office in all of Kreel County. “If I were gay I would fill the district’s entire minority quota all by myself,” she said and laughed again, without malice or bitterness. Listening to her infectious laugh and working to keep from breaking up myself, I found I liked her very much, this stranger—liked her more than some friends I’ve known for decades. But the laugh quickly died when I flashed my ID and lied to her, telling her that I was a process server looking for a deadbeat that my client wanted to sue, reminding her that my request was entirely legal.

“I know my job,” she coolly informed me as her long fingers danced over the keyboard of her computer terminal.

“Bettich, Michael J., 2035 Broadway Avenue, Deer Lake, Wisconsin,” she recited quickly.

I didn’t write down the address in my notebook. It was the same as Rosalind Colletti Investments, Alison’s alleged employer. I waited for the clerk to look up from her computer screen.

“Something more?” she said.

“Where is 2035 Broadway Avenue?” I asked, wondering if she was this protective of all her addressees.

“Do your own dirty work, gumshoe.”

Gumshoe? Now there’s a word I hadn’t heard for a long time.

“Sorry I ruined your day,” I told her, and I meant it.

I asked for directions from a pump jockey working the twenty-four hour service station on the corner, who looked at me like I was the dumbest human being alive. His directions consisted of shaking his head and pointing a greasy finger at the small building across the street and up the block. There was no address on the outside of the structure, only the sign: KING ENTERPRISES.

From a distance, it looked like an honest-to-God log cabin hewed with ax and saw. It wasn’t until I was up close that I noticed the nailheads. And it wasn’t until I opened the door to discover a polished interior filled with black leather, mirrored surfaces, and glass—not an earth tone in sight—that I realized the logs were merely a facade. Is nothing real anymore? Even the hair on the receptionist looked fake, a cascading waterfall of midnight that splashed over her shoulders and down her back. Against her pale face it looked like a wig displayed on a mannequin’s head.

The name plate on her desk read ANGEL JOHANNSON, and perhaps there had been a time when the name applied. But no longer. Angel Johannson had lost the wholesome innocence usually associated with the species, her face taking on the mistrustful countenance of one who’s fallen from grace. According to the inscribed date, the high-school graduation ring she wore was only two years old.

I guessed she was the daughter of the infamous Johnny Johannson and sister to the punk. How many Angel Johannsons could there be in Deer Lake?

“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly enough.

“I’d like to speak with Michael Bettich,” I told her.

She hesitated before answering, “I’m afraid you must have the wrong office.”

“Is this the address of Rosalind Colletti Investments?”

She repeated herself, never taking her eyes off me. “I’m afraid you must have the wrong office.”

“This is where the United States Post Office sent me.”

“Perhaps you’d care to speak with Mr. Koehn.”

“Does he know Michael Bettich?” I asked sarcastically.

“Mr. Koehn can help you.”

“Fine, I’d like to speak with Mr. Koehn.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Koehn is not in at the present time,” Angel informed me. “If you would care to leave a message …”

This is going well, I told myself. “When do you expect Mr. Koehn? ” I asked.

“I really couldn’t say. He’s at the rallies.”

“Rally?”

“Rallies,” she said, emphasizing the plural. “Some folks want the casino, some don’t. At the park,” she added, gesturing vaguely west with her hand.

Along with my business card I gave her my best Arnold. “Tell Michael I’ll be back.”

“I told you, she isn’t here,” Angel insisted.

“How did you know Michael is a she?”

The church, a small brick affair with glass doors and a steeple topped with a crucifix, was rooted in a large field on the right side of the county road. It left me feeling a slight pang of nostalgia. I hadn’t been inside a church since that bright autumn day when services were held for my wife and daughter, and won’t I catch hell about that the next time I see them.