Olen wanted to reach out and hug Willis, show him everything was alright. “You come into my store anytime you want.”
“You sure, Olen, after all that’s been taken from you?”
“Not by you, Willis. Not by you.” He looked into Willis. “I know that now.”
A growing breeze flowed through from front to back, the lower opening to the upper, geothermal heat being replaced with fresh, cold air.
Out there, out over the top of the nearby ridge, storm clouds were building. Sun coming through the west facing windows still filled the room with light.
Relaxing now, getting philosophical, Olen said, “I keep trying to figure it out, me and some of the others, why we gonna . . . why we stay? I mean, we all got a small piece but . . .”
The way Willis looked at him, those eyes stopped him cold, looking deep into Olen. “This place doesn’t belong to any of us; not me, not you, not the Potters, not to any of us. We belong to this place. All of us belong to this place.” He looked out at the ridge, the mounting dark clouds. “You and Nason better go now. There’s a storm coming.”
Chapter Eighteen
The only light in Ellen Winslow’s living room came from her television, the old black and white version of Miracle on 34thStreet. She’d seen it a million times. The only thing dumber than watching it again was the stupid movie itself. She hated this stupid movie. People just don’t live like that. Mothers should never coddle their daughters. Daughters are selfish, just like this stupid little girl in this stupid movie, just like her own daughter, Carolyn la-de-da Potter. Carolyn loved Jason just like this stupid mother in this stupid movie loved her little brat.
Only Jason isn't a brat. Not yet.
She lit a cigarette, took two puffs and set it in the ashtray with another lit cigarette that had burned down to the filter. She crushed the old one into the heap of snubbed out smokes and took another puff from the fresh one.
Her telephone rang, probably some stupid salesperson from some stupid call center in the Philippines. It rang two more times, a nuisance now. She picked it up. “Hello.”
“Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas.”
Great, my stupid, selfish daughter.
“How can I have a Merry Christmas without my grandson?”
“Well, that’s why I called. We were hoping you could come up here. We have plenty of room.”
“How can I? Isn’t there snow on the roads?”
“Well, Tom Kirby will be coming up on the twenty third. I’m sure he’d be happy for the company.”
“The twenty third? That’s impossible. Our office party is on the twenty third.”
“I thought you hated those.”
“They expect me to answer the phones this year.”
“Does that mean you won’t be having any cocktails?”
“After what happened last year, they decided against the booze.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Well,” Ellen took a drag, stumped the cigarette out and lit another. “Kathy got up on Brian’s desk and did a strip tease.”
“Oh, no.” Carolyn laughed. “Isn’t she in her fifties and a little overweight?”
“A little?” Kathy's skin had stretched pink from fat. “She’s Petunia Pig, waving her big, fat butt at all the boys.”
“Oh, no.” Carolyn laughed again. “That’s so funny. I know you never told me.”
“I wouldn’t tell you in front of my grandson.”
“Oh, Mom.” Carolyn whined her little sigh.
The selfish . . .
“So, how was your Thanksgiving?”
“I went down to the Bright Spot.”
“How was it?”
Awful.
“Not too many places open on Thanksgiving. Not anymore. Besides, if their other customers don’t complain, they look the other way when I smoke.”
“Oh, Mom, I wish you’d give those things up.”
“I will.” She filled her lungs with smoke and let it drift out. “. . . one of these days.”
"What did you have, the vegetable casserole?"
“They’re not as good as they used to be. I think they hired a new chef. They used to put this graham cracker crust on top.”
“Aren’t you going to ask about our Thanksgiving?”
“What for?” Her daughter couldn’t cook anyway, feeding Jason all that fatty fast-food slop.
Ellen puffed her cigarette through a long pause.
“Here, Mom, Jason wants to say hello.”
“Merry Christmas, Grandma.”
“Merry Christmas, yourself.” She couldn’t help but smile, hearing his voice. “How was your Thanksgiving?”
“Awesome. Mom made a huge turkey with stuffing and everything. I got to kill it Wednesday night. I chopped off its head with a hatchet.”
“What?” He must be . . .
“Willis and John Crow even came down.”
“Are they some of your mom’s new boyfriends?”
“Gosh, no. They’re two of our neighbors. They help out around here so they got invited. Willis cut us a really cool Christmas tree. It’s a silver spruce. You should see it. We decorated it ourselves, us and Barnabas.”
“You still have that mutt? I thought a bear would have eaten him by now.”
“Almost. That was a really scary night but Barnabas chewed off one of its legs when it tried getting inside.”
“What? What kind of . . .”
“It’s okay now, though. Willis already fixed the latch. It’s a special Baldwin ‘cause our door is three inches thick.”
“What are you talking about, Jason? A bear?”
“They’ve got a system up here and me and Mom understand it now so we don’t interfere anymore. Not anymore.”
“What?”
“Hi, Mom.” Carolyn had taken the phone away from Jason.
“What’s he talking about? What’s going on up there?” She took a long pull on her cigarette, waiting for her stupid, selfish daughter to organize an answer. She could almost hear that stupid, whining voice, Well, Mom . . .
“Well, Mom, it’s difficult to explain. There’s something going on up here, some kind of wild animals. They sometimes attack people. Don’t worry about us, though. We’re . . .”
“What?”
TOM KIRBY STARTED DOWN the north side of Lee Vining Summit a little after sunset, wet spots in the road already turning to ice,
