III
IF YOU HAVE GHOSTS, YOU HAVE EVERYTHING
THE MEETING
Day Five of the Contamination
It’s been a morning of folk songs, sitting alone in the music room singing forgotten hymns. After the sun rose, I checked to see if Rosita was awake. She lay underneath the sheets in the shadows of the guest room. Aside from her breath moving fallen hair across the pillow, she remained still as a heart between beats. I didn’t want to wake her. Didn’t want to explain where I was going or have her try to follow. I closed the door and started for the creek.
That was ten minutes ago. Now I stand in the yard, the words of those dead songwriters still echoing in my head. The notes feel so precise and urgent, like the last argument against the slow erosion of everything we make. Proof that something does in fact survive the undefeated encroachment of time. I hum the melody. My joints feel fused this morning, less mobile than only a day before. At the edge of the woods, I select a walking stick from the bramble to lean on. A solid piece of hickory the length of my stunted legs. It eases my stride, but there is no question who is winning the contest between myself and time.
A deputy is stationed on the opposite bank. The windows of the SUV are rolled down, the brim of his hat pulled over his eyes like a field hand resting after a long day’s labor. A paper cup, no doubt filled with the dregs of cold coffee, sits on the dash. I stand close by the water, but he doesn’t notice me.
“Hey there,” I shout.
The deputy pulls the hat from his eyes. He blinks while considering my shape. These looks are so familiar I can almost read a stranger’s thoughts by the furrow of a brow, the way an eye widens as if to accommodate the scope of such a sight. This used to stir feelings of anger. Now, I’m just annoyed by lost time. The deputy wipes a trickle of drool from his mouth and leans out the window.
“Mr. Bragg?” he says. “Everything all right?”
“I need a ride.”
No doubt he’s frustrated enough with the strange guard duty. Nobody told him he’d be expected to operate as a taxi service as well. He seems reluctant but puts the Explorer in gear and drives across the creek to collect me. I have considerable trouble climbing up into the cab.
“Where to?” the deputy asks.
“Just head toward town,” I say. “I’ll point out the way.”
I’m a day early for my meeting, but surprise is the point. I want to catch Angela off guard and not come like a dog when called. The power dynamic has always been in her favor. Arriving to confront her in a police car might remedy some of that. My escort isn’t very cooperative as I give directions. He sulks behind the wheel as we turn onto the interstate, grumbles about how he’ll be nearly out of his jurisdiction by the time we reach the convention center where Angela is staying. The road winds through hewed-back mountains, town nothing but a memory as we move farther into the brush. We take an exit off the road and begin to ascend a hill.
“I didn’t sign on to be a shuttle service,” the officer tells me.
“I thought your assignment was to protect your witness?” I say. “Or would you rather I came alone?”
We both know I couldn’t have made it alone, but he doesn’t bother arguing. Just clenches the wheel and drives on.
“At least tell me what we’re doing out here.”
“She’ll be there,” I say.
“She” makes him sigh. He casts a weary look out the passenger window, and we drive the rest of the way with the radio crackling as garbled voices speak over the police frequency.
The Mountaineer Hotel and Convention Center isn’t like anything an outsider might picture. The name alone is deceiving. It’s just a decent hotel with two large conference rooms where state employees can hold their meetings all day, then raid the little restaurant and bar before sneaking off to each other’s suites for discreet infidelities. The log cabin exterior attempts a rustic tone that doesn’t match the inside’s decor. The interior has a penchant for parquet floors, and inauspicious prints hang on the walls. It’s as if the decorator wanted to defy the hillbilly sensibilities on the outside. I’ve only been here once before but admired the stone hearth of the bar’s fireplace. The Troubadours chose it because it’s separated from the current chaos of Coopersville and the closest thing we have that approaches fancy.
My driver parks by the front entrance. The rest of the lot is empty aside from two black Mercedes sedans and an old Buick Regal sitting alone in the far corner. Through the glass doors, I see the faux marble of the entryway. A small woman in a tight business suit stands behind the high front desk, playing on her phone.
“You mind waiting just a minute?” I ask the officer.
“Don’t look like I’ve got much of a choice.” He scans the empty lot. “What could you possibly have going on here?”
“If you wait, I’ll fill you in when I’m back,” I say.
The officer nods. “Whatever. Just be fast.” He leans back in the seat, readying for a long spell.
The woman behind the desk drops her iPhone as I enter. It slides between her feet where she snatches it up, inspects the screen with relief that it isn’t cracked and tries to recover.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we aren’t accepting any occupants at this time.”
Then what are you doing on duty? I think. Instead, I just smile and rest my elbows on the oak desktop.
“I’m here to see Angela Carver,” I say. “My name is Hollis Bragg and I have an appointment.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have any residents.”
“Call her,” I say.
The woman peers out the window and sees the cop car waiting. I smile until she cradles the phone between her neck and ear, whispers into the mouthpiece with her head tilted away as if afraid I can read lips.
“Someone will be right down, Mr. Bragg,” she says.
I sit in one of the leather chairs near the entryway. The straight back isn’t comfortable, but I can endure it until Angela arrives. I remind myself that “someone” doesn’t necessarily mean Angela, but my heart beats hard in anticipation. Even my hands tremble. With no guitar to calm my nerves, I look out the window. A few turkey vultures circle in the distance, triangulating the location of some carrion. At this elevation, the mountains look smoky, sections enveloped in a fog that hangs heavy over the valleys. Groundhogs making coffee, my father used to say when he’d look out on similar misty mornings.
Nature can’t keep my attention. I’m wondering about that Buick in the lot. The Mercedes sedans belong to Angela’s crew, and the receptionist’s suit looks too expensive for someone driving such a broken-down ride. I’m trying to reconcile this when I hear shoes clicking across the floor.