See? Trapped. On the other hand, they were having breakfast with Jennifer and Dyma tomorrow, doing some skiing with them, and then, obviously, coming back here, because there was no place else to go. Which would be the plus side.
Which was also why he needed to have this conversation.
“My room,” he told Owen when they’d headed down the hall. “It’s got two beds.”
When they were each sitting with their back against a headboard and holding a bottle of beer, Owen said, “This reminds me of my rookie season.”
“Except that we had TV and the internet,” Harlan said.
“Did they have the internet back then?”
Harlan sighed. “Man, the generational stuff is just going to get worse, isn’t it?”
“If you go after the mom? Probably.”
Harlan stopped a second, then said, “It’s one weekend.”
Owen took a swallow of beer. “Yep.”
“See,” Harlan said, “this is the problem with meeting women who’ve got depth. Depth just complicates things.”
“You saying you’re not going after her?”
“How can I, if I’m about to tell you that going after Dyma would be a dick move?”
“Because Dyma’s eighteen and Jennifer isn’t? Also—you think I don’t know that? Seriously, bro? She’s in high school.”
“I also think,” Harlan said, “that she spun your head all the way around.”
“It’s not my head that’s confused,” Owen said. “My head gets it.”
“So that’s a no, then,” Harlan said. “On both counts.”
“Yep,” Owen agreed. “That’s a no.”
11
Can’t Sleep. Can’t Sit
There was noise outside Harlan’s window. An eerie sound, like a horn.
It wasn’t the freaky near-scream of coyotes. He’d heard plenty of coyotes. He didn’t think it was wolves, either, though he’d sure like to hear those. He listened some more, then went over to the window and shoved it open. The snow swirled in, and the subzero air nearly sucked the breath out of his body. Like playing in Green Bay. Or like playing on his high-school field, in a flat, frozen land where football was the only thing there was. His ticket out.
The sound came again, much louder now, and he recognized it. Owls, two of them, calling back and forth to each other.
He listened a while more, getting colder but feeling better, then shut the window, grabbed the coffee-table book again, and looked them up.
Great horned owls. Dark spirits of the night, according to the Cheyenne. Moving silently with their fluted feathers, seeing in the dark, swooping down on their prey without warning, the horns on their heads symbols of their fearsome power.
Huh. They didn’t feel sinister to him. They just felt powerful. He’d heard them like this once in high school. The dead of winter, when football was over and there was no baseball yet, when he’d linger in the weight room to delay going home. One night, he’d driven up to find his mom out on the porch, her coat on, hugging herself.
She’d said, “Listen.” And he had.
After a while, she said, “That’s a mated pair of great horned owls. You can tell from how deep the sound is, and how strong. No other owl sounds quite like that. They’re calling to each other. They mate for life. Isn’t that a beautiful thing?”
Harlan didn’t say, “Yes.” He wasn’t sure it was such a beautiful thing.
“You hear how the voice near us is higher, and the other one’s lower?” his mom said. “That’s the male. He’s got a bigger voice box. They’re finding each other, telling each other, ‘I’m over here.’ And maybe, ‘I’m heading out again,’ because they’ll be hunting some more tonight. Who knows what else they’re saying? Why do they talk so long? Maybe they enjoy it. Maybe it’s conversation. What do you think?”
“Hey, Joann,” Harlan heard from inside the house, “you planning to get that dinner on the table anytime this century?”
She didn’t answer. She told Harlan, “Some people think that’s a scary sound. To me, it reminds me that spring’s coming. It’s cold and dark and snowy out here, and it feels like it’ll never stop being cold and dark and snowy, but there’s still life all around, under the snow. That’s the good thing about winter. It always ends up turning to spring.”
And then she’d gone in the house to put dinner on the table.
She’d found her spring, he guessed. Too bad she’d left the rest of them stuck in winter.
He dialed the phone.
“Axel Kristiansen,” the voice boomed out.
“Hey, Dad.” Harlan forced his body to relax. “How’re you doing?” He wished once again that his dad would let his little sister have her own phone. That way, he could’ve just called her and bypassed all this.
His father said, “You calling to apologize? To tell me you’ve remembered what you owe me?” His voice was just a little bit slurred.
Breathe. In and out.
“Nope,” Harlan said. “I called to talk to Annabelle.” He left it there.
“What’s everybody’s going to think,” Axel said, “if I tell them you’re not coming for the Super Bowl after all? And not only that—what about the thing I have planned for tomorrow out at the dealership? We’ve got half the town coming for that. Am I supposed to tell everybody it’s off, because my son, the big hero, can’t be bothered to show up and support his home town? Even after he lost the game?”
“Tell them what you want,” Harlan said. “I already told you I wasn’t coming.”
“This town made you.” His father’s voice was rising now. “Every coach who took his time to help you, every teammate you ever had, every business that sponsored you. Don’t you think you owe them?” Harlan didn’t answer, and he went on. “Hell, don’t you think you owe me? Who went to bat for you with the coach when he didn’t want to play you, sixth grade? Who kicked your ass when you got lazy and made you get back out there and run another two miles? Who worked his ass off for all of you after your mom ran off? All so you could get what I got cheated out of. Now you’ve got it, and you think you did it all by yourself, don’t even think you owe me the courtesy of showing up for an event that’ll put food on the table. What the hell kind of gratitude is that?”
There was so much Harlan could have said, but there was no point. Axel’s voice had gotten even louder as he talked. How many beers down was he now? Six at least. No point, not after six. So instead, he just said, “Not gonna happen, Dad. Put Annabelle on, will you?”
“Are you on your way, or what?” Axel said.
“No,” Harlan said. “I’m not on my way. I’m not coming.” No point dressing it up. He said again, “Put Annabelle on.”
“Go to hell,” his father said. And hung up.
Harlan sat a minute, until his heart rate slowed. Then he got up, drank a glass of water, grabbed the phone again, and emailed his sister.