Steve Hamilton - The hunting wind

“She was a spiritual reader,” Randy said. “A fortune-teller.”

That hit them like a bolt of lightning. “The fortune-teller!” Mrs. Meisner said. “Oh my God, Fred! The fortune-teller!”

“Yes! Yes!” Mr. Meisner said. “And that family. What was their name?”

“It was Valeska,” I said. “You remember the family?”

“Oh good heavens, yes,” Mrs. Meisner said. “My, what a time that was. With that family down the street. And that sign she put out on the sidewalk! You remember, with the big hand?”

“Yes! The hand!” Mr. Meisner said. “Mickey rented the upstairs to those people. I think they were only there for nine months, maybe ten months. And then they were gone! Just like that! Mickey, he thought they were Gypsies or something.”

“But they paid their rent,” Mrs. Meisner said. “I remember Martha telling me that. And they kept the place clean.”

“Ah, but they were the strangest people,” Mr. Meisner said. “The husband-what was his first name?”

Here it comes, I thought. This is why we’re here. Randy and I were both hanging on their words now.

“It was an interesting name,” she said. “Something exotic.”

“The whole family was exotic. What were their names? There were four of them.”

“The man’s name was…” she said.

We held our breath.

“Gregor!” she said. “That was his name! I remember wondering what happened to the y at the end!”

“Yes, Gregor,” Mr. Meisner said. “And the woman was… Oh Lord, what was her name?”

“Arabella,” she said. “I remember it. It’s such a nice name, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. I looked at Randy. He was lost in his own world, now that he had those names to think about.

“They had one boy and one girl,” Mr. Meisner said. “The boy’s name was…”

“Leopold,” Randy said. “His name was Leopold, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Meisner said. “That was his name. He was a tough-looking little guy, wasn’t he?”

“Ha! I remember now!” Mr. Meisner said. “He painted that room for us, remember, Muriel? That’s what he and his father did-they were painters!”

“That’s right!” Randy said. “I should have remembered that!”

“They were good, too. They did a good job on the room. Anyway, when they were done, I said something like ‘Thank you, Leo!’ And he said to me-what did he say? He said, ‘My name is Leopold! My name is not Leo! Leo is a name for American men who drink beer and sit on their front porches in their undershirts.’ Lord, how did I remember that?”

“He was a strange one all right,” Mrs. Meisner said. “Ah, but the daughter…”

“Maria,” Randy said. He said it in a way that stopped them. Both of them.

“Yes, Maria,” Mrs. Meisner said. “She was such a beautiful girl.”

“I’m looking for her,” Randy said. “That’s why we’re here.”

They both just nodded. Apparently, it didn’t seem like a crazy idea to them. Of course, they had both seen Maria. So maybe that was enough of an explanation. Or maybe when you live that long, nothing seems crazy anymore.

“Do you have any idea where they might have gone?” I said. “After they left the Kowalskis’ house?”

“No,” Mr. Meisner said. “They just disappeared. They left the last month’s rent under Mickey’s door, and just vanished.”

“Well, we have the names now,” I said. “That could mean a lot. And wait a minute-didn’t you say that the Kowalskis still send you Christmas cards?”

“Mickey and Martha,” he said. “Yes, every year. We don’t ever talk or anything, but every Christmas we get a card.”

“I tell you, he’s real sick,” she said. “I heard that somewhere.”

“Nonsense, Muriel!”

“Would you happen to have their address, then?” I said.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “We send them a card every year, too. It would be kinda rude not to, don’t you think?”

“Could I trouble you for that address perhaps?” I said.

“Yes, of course,” he said. It took him a little while, but he got up off the chair. “You’ll have to excuse me. I turn ninety-two next month.”

“How long have you been married?” Randy said.

He looked down at his wife. He touched her hair. “Seventy years.”

“We’ll get a divorce someday,” she said. “We’re waiting for the children to die.”

“Ha! I love that one,” he said. “All right, now where did you put those addresses!”

“They’re in the box,” she said.

“I know they’re in the box! Where’s the box?”

“It’s where it always is! In the bedroom, on the dresser!”

“No, that’s where you always put it! Oh, never mind. I’ll find it myself!” He disappeared into the bedroom.

“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this, Mrs. Meisner,” Randy said.

“It’s nice to have the company,” she said. “I haven’t thought about the old neighborhood in a long time.”

“I found it!” Mr. Meisner called from the next room. “Right where I put it!”

Mrs. Meisner gave us a smile and a shake of her head.

“Here it is,” he said as he shuffled back into the room. “They moved to Arizona. Can you believe it? All the way out there with the desert and the cactuses. Let’s see, Kowalski…” He looked through the index cards in the box. “Here, Mickey and Martha Kowalski. In Tucson.”

I took the card from him and copied down the address. There was no phone number, but I figured we could look that up.

We stayed for another thirty minutes, listening to more stories about the old neighborhood and how wonderful or horrible this new place was, depending on who was talking. Mr. Meisner stood up to shake our hands as we left. We both bent over Mrs. Meisner in her wheelchair and gave her a hug and a kiss. We promised we’d come back and visit them again someday.

On our way back to the motel, Randy kept looking at the Arizona address I had written down for the Kowalskis, even though he could not read it unless we were passing under a streetlamp. Even though he probably already had it memorized.

“We’re almost there, aren’t we?” he said. “This is them. The people who rented the upstairs to the Valeskas.”

“They may not be much help,” I said. “You heard what the Meisners said about the way the Valeskas left. They probably have no idea where they went.”

“I know,” he said. “But it’ll be good to talk to them anyway. They might help me remember something else. So much is coming back to me now. Like the fact that they were housepainters. It’s like a fuzzy picture that’s coming back into focus, you know what I mean?”

“A picture of the way things were in 1971,” I said. “You can’t forget that, Randy.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “I hear what you’re saying.”

When we were back in our motel room, I sat on one bed, Randy on the other. I called information in Tucson and got the number for the Kowalskis. Before I could dial it, Randy took the phone from me.

“Let me do this one,” he said.

“It’s all yours.”

“What time is it, about nine o’clock? So in Arizona, it’s seven o’clock? No problem.”

He dialed the number, waited for a couple rings, and then said, “Hello! I’m looking for a Mr. Michael Kowalski! Or Mickey, I guess they call him!” He was wearing his killer smile, which doesn’t work so well over the phone. The smile disappeared, and before he could say another word, he was looking at the phone like it had just stung him in the ear.

“They hung up,” he said. “They told me that Mickey was dead and then they hung up.”

“I guess Mrs. Meisner was right,” I said. “Mickey was sick.”

“What am I going to do now?”