Griffin reminded Broker of a story from his youth about a hermit who’d lived in the canoe country north of Ely, who resisted being relocated when the government created the Boundary Waters canoe area. When it became clear that the law would come in and forcibly move him, the guy had forted up on an island with a crate of dynamite, sat down, and lit the fuse.
Rather than return to civilization.
Griffin preferred to work alone. Or in Teedo’s large, quiet shadow, which was the next thing to being alone. And Broker wasn’t sure if the repetitious lifting and placing of the heavy stone was a meditation or a form of solitary penance. One morning, returning for a second consecutive day, he noticed that Griffin had torn apart a mosaic of stone Broker had laid out on the concrete base and then rearranged it to his own satisfaction. The gesture was consistent with a theory Broker had about his friend; that Griffin constantly tore himself down and reshaped his image.
Because he couldn’t accept who he really was.
It was a persistent point of tension between them, going all the way back to the old days when they first operated together in Vietnam. More than any man he knew, Broker believed Griffin should have stayed in the Army. Not a particularly kind observation. But a true one.
Half past eleven. Break time; they retrieved their lunch bags and thermoses, sat in a corner of the tent, ate sandwiches, and poured coffee. Then the jive games began.
Griffin squinted through the smoke from the Lucky in his lips at Teedo. “You notice how Broker kinda creaks when he moves, like’s got sand in his crank case? Hey, Broker, when’s the last time you got laid, anyway?”
Broker fired back without missing a beat. “I don’t know about you transplants from Detroit, but up on the North Shore, where I grew up, a guy only gets allotted about five hundred million erections. What can I say-when they’re gone, they gone.”
Undeterred, Griffin winked at Teedo. “He ain’t seen all the ads on TV; Viagra, Cialis…”
“That’s ’cause they ain’t aimed at him; they’re for old farts like you who can barely eat a little pussy between naps,” Teedo said.
Broker grinned and held up a Ziploc bag full of raw cut broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots.
Teedo passed, wrinkling his nose.
Griffin grinned. “He don’t eat vegetables, among other things.”
Teedo grunted. “We got a word for people who eat too many vegetables.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” Griffin needled.
“Bad hunter,” Teedo said with flawless timing.
Broker felt the muscles of his face loosen in a genuine grin. Not to be outdone, Griffin appraised Teedo and said with great formality, “What I heard is you Indian guys don’t go in for oral sex.”
Teedo’s round face revealed nothing. “My daddy always said that Ojibwa can eat beaver and stretch it too.”
Griffin hung his head, laughing, unable to top that. After a pause, he turned to Broker. “Speaking of pussy, you ever find the cat?”
“No kitty; one way or the other, she’s gone,” Broker said. “Kit’s pretty bummed-the cat was all she had to play with.”
“Want me to find another?”
Broker ground his teeth lightly. “Might be best to get one back in Stillwater.”
“Oh?” Griffin raised his eyebrows. “You got something to tell me?”
Broker shrugged. “Things are looking better. Let’s wait and see…”
Hearing that, Griffin studied Broker for a moment and added, “Uh-huh.” Then he signaled that the break was over. “Enough grabass, we got work to do.”
The early afternoon passed quickly, and Broker felt himself loosening up, enjoying the work tugging at his muscles. The tease and dig of easy male company was an antidote to the estrogen bends, he decided; he’d been too far down in that house with Nina and Kit. When he prepared to leave to pick Kit up from school, Griffin caught up to him at his truck.
“You know,” Griffin said, “I was thinking about what you said-the cat being Kit’s only playmate…”
“Yeah?”
“You met Susan, right, at school?”
“Yeaahh…” Broker drew it out, watching the wheels turning in Griffin’s eyes.
“So I was thinking. Susan’s got this daughter, Amy, same age as Kit. Maybe we could line them up so Kit’s got somebody to hang with…might make it go easier.”
Broker worried his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes weighing the idea. “I’ll think about it.”
“If we get the kids together, could be a good idea for Susan and Nina to maybe talk…”
“This one of your half-assed interventions?” Broker smiled when he said it, amiable.
“Can’t hurt,” Griffin said.
Broker turned and headed for his truck. “We on for tomorrow morning in the torture chamber?” Once a week Broker joined Griffin in his basement weight room, where they went through a lifting routine.
“Sure.”
“We’ll talk about it then, along with how much politically correct crow I gotta eat to make the peace with that asshole Klumpe,” Broker said, getting in his truck.
Teedo walked over to Griffin. They stood watching Broker drive off.
“You heard what’s been going on?” Griffin asked.
Teedo nodded. “Heard the gang talking it up at Skeet’s. How Broker put Jimmy Klumpe on the ground. Started when Broker’s kid knocked Teddy Klumpe on his butt at school. Then yesterday Broker dumped his garbage at Jimmy’s garage, right on the welcome mat.”
“There’s more. Two days ago, after the scene at school, somebody came in on skis through the woods, punctured a tire on his truck, tried to poison his dog”-Griffin paused-“maybe got in the house…”
“Country payback. Except he ain’t got a dog,” Teedo said.
“Yeah. But they took some stuff, a kid’s toy, maybe the cat. Weird, huh? Can you picture a klutz like Jimmy going in on skis?” Griffin picked up two empty gas cans, started to put them in the open lift door of his Jeep.
“Don’t sound like Jimmy. Day before last, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Day before last, I gassed up at the Amoco and the truck in front of me was that old beat-up Chevy Gator Bodine drives.”
Hearing Gator’s name, Griffin stopped in mid-motion, loading a gas can in the back of his Jeep. He turned, giving Teedo his full attention. “What time was this?” he asked.
“Ah, midafternoon. We quit early, remember. And I stopped before I went to Skeet’s for a couple beers. Thing was”-Teedo paused for emphasis-“there was cross-country skis and poles in the truck box. With snow on them. And when Gator come out of the station carrying a bag, he was wearing those ski boots. And winter camos, like for bow hunting.”
“Gator, huh?”
“Yeah. He’s a demon for skinny skis.” Teedo turned toward his truck, climbed in, started the engine, zipped down the window, leaned out. “Griffin, you’re getting that look in your eye. Like when you first hauled me to an AA meeting.”
Griffin shrugged.
Teedo paused to let Griffin appreciate the serious shadow that came into his quiet eyes. “I’d be real careful around Gator. He ain’t true.”
“C’mon, Teedo, what?” Griffin straightened up, prodded by the fast lick of danger in Teedo’s expression.
Teedo gnawed his lip, looked away, and spoke into the distance. “Take a minute to think. You want to go into it, I’ll be at Skeet’s. You can buy me a beer, huh.” Then he zipped up the window, covering the bare hint of an ironic grin, and drove away.
Alone behind the lodge, Griffin lit a cigarette and poured the last of the coffee out of his thermos, thinking about what Teedo had seen at the Amoco.
Gator. It tracked. Cassie’s kid gets thumped. Gator always fought his sister’s battles. And if the story about the meth house fire was true, he had a propensity to go insane deep into vengeance.
