C Box: Below Zero

Sylvia thought, A life spent as a farmer but the man won’t eat vegetables.

Turning to her, Stenko asked, “I was hoping I could borrow a potato or two. I’d sure appreciate it.”

She smiled, despite herself, and felt her cheeks get warm. He had good manners, this man, and those dark eyes…

SHE WAS CLEANING UP the dishes on the picnic table when Marshall and Stenko finally came out of the motor home. Marshall had done the tour of The Unit so many times, for so many people, that his speech was becoming smooth and well rehearsed. Fellow retired RV enthusiasts as well as people still moored to their jobs wanted to see what it looked like inside the behemoth vehicle: their 2009 45-foot diesel-powered Fleetwood American Heritage, which Marshall simply called “The Unit.” She heard phrases she’d heard dozens of times, “Forty-six thousand, six hundred pounds gross vehicle weight… five hundred horses with a ten-point-eight-liter diesel engine… satellite radio… three integrated cameras for backing up… GPS… bedroom with queen bed, satellite television… washer/dryer… wine rack and wet bar even though neither one of us drinks…”

Now Marshall was getting to the point in his tour where, he said, “We traded a life of farming for life in The Unit. We do the circuit now.”

“What’s the circuit?” Stenko asked. She thought he sounded genuinely interested. Which meant he might not leave for a while.

Sylvia shot a glance toward the SUV. She wondered why the people inside didn’t get out, didn’t join Stenko for the tour or at least say hello. They weren’t very friendly, she thought. Her sister in Wisconsin said people from Chicago were like that, as if they owned all the midwestern states and thought of Wisconsin as their own personal recreation playground and Iowa as a cornfield populated by hopeless rubes.

“It’s our circuit,” Marshall explained, “visiting our kids and grand-kids in six different states, staying ahead of the snow, making sure we hit the big flea markets in Quartzsite, going to a few Fleetwood rallies where we can look at the newest models and talk to our fellow owners. We’re kind of a like a club, us Fleetwood people.”

Stenko said, “It’s the biggest and most luxurious thing I’ve ever been in. It’s amazing. You must really get some looks on the road.”

“Thank you,” Marshall said. “We spent a lifetime farming just so we…”

“I’ve heard a vehicle like this can cost more than six hundred K. Now, I’m not asking you what you paid, but am I in the ballpark?”

Marshall nodded, grinned.

“What kind of gas mileage does it get?” Stenko asked.

“Runs on diesel,” Marshall said.

“Whatever,” Stenko said, withdrawing a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket and flipping it open.

What’s he doing? Sylvia thought.

“We’re getting eight to ten miles a gallon,” Marshall said. “Depends on the conditions, though. The Black Hills are the first mountains we hit going west from Iowa, and the air’s getting thinner. So the mileage gets worse. When we go through Wyoming and Montana-sheesh.”

“Not good, eh?” Stenko said, scribbling.

Sylvia knew Marshall disliked talking about miles per gallon because it made him defensive.

“You can’t look at it that way,” Marshall said, “you can’t look at it like it’s a car or a truck. You’ve got to look at it as your house on wheels. You’re moving your own house from place to place. Eight miles per gallon is a small price to pay for living in your own house. You save on motels and such like that.”

Stenko licked his pencil and scribbled. He seemed excited. “So how many miles do you put on your… house… in a year?”

Marshall looked at Sylvia. She could tell he was ready for Stenko to leave.

“Sixty thousand on average,” Marshall said. “Last year we did eighty.”

Stenko whistled. “How many years have you been doing this circuit as you call it?”

“Five,” Marshall said. “But this is the first year in The Unit.”

Stenko ignored Sylvia’s stony glare. “How many more years do you figure you’ll be doing this?”

“That’s a crazy question,” she said. “It’s like you’re asking us when we’re going to die.”

Stenko chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

She crossed her arms and gave Marshall a Get rid of him look.

“You’re what, sixty-five, sixty-six?” Stenko asked.

“Sixty-five,” Marshall said. “Sylvia’s…”

“Marshall!”

“… approximately the same age,” Stenko said, finishing Marshall’s thought and making another note. “So it’s not crazy to say you two might be able to keep this up for another ten or so years. Maybe even more.”

“More,” Marshall said, “I hope.”

“I’ve got to clean up,” Sylvia said, “if you’ll excuse me.” She was furious at Stenko for his personal questions and at Marshall for answering them.

“Oh,” Stenko said, “about those potatoes.”

She paused on the step into the motor home and didn’t look at Stenko when she said, “I have a couple of bakers. Will they do?”

“Perfect,” Stenko said.

She turned. “Why do you need two potatoes? Aren’t there three of you? I see two more heads out there in your car.”

“Sylvia,” Marshall said, “would you please just get the man a couple of spuds?”

She stomped inside and returned with two and held them out like a ritual offering. Stenko chuckled as he took them.

“I really do thank you,” he said, reaching inside his jacket. “I appreciate your time and information. Ten years on the road is a long time. I envy you in ways you’ll never understand.”

She was puzzled now. His voice was warm and something about his tone-so sad-touched her. And was that a tear in his eye?

INSIDE THE HYBRID SUV, the fourteen year-old girl asked the man in the passenger seat, “Like what is he doing up there?”

The man-she knew him as Robert-was in his mid-thirties. He was handsome and he knew it with his blond hair with the expensive highlights and his ice-cold green eyes and his small, sharp little nose. But he was shrill for a man his age, she thought, and had yet to be very friendly to her. Not that he’d been cruel. It was obvious, though, that he’d rather have Stenko’s undivided attention. Robert said, “He told you not to watch.”

“But why is he taking, like, big potatoes from them?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

Robert turned and pierced her with those eyes. “They’ll act as silencers and muffle the shots.”

“The shots?” She shifted in the back seat so she could see through the windshield better between the front seats. Up the hill, Stenko had turned his back to the old couple and was jamming a big potato on the end of a long-barreled pistol. Before she could speak, Stenko wheeled and swung the weapon up and there were two coughs and the old man fell down. The potato had burst and the pieces had fallen so Stenko jammed the second one on. There were two more coughs and the woman dropped out of sight behind the picnic table.

The girl screamed and balled her fists in her mouth.

“SHUT UP!” Robert said, “For God’s sake, shut up.” To himself, I knew bringing a girl along was a bad idea. I swear to God I can’t figure out what goes on in that brain of his.

She’d seen killing, but she couldn’t believe what had happened. Stenko was so nice. Did he know the old couple? Did they say or do something that he felt he had to defend himself? A choking sob broke through.

Robert said, “He should have left you in Chicago.”

SHE COULDN’T STOP CRYING and peeking even though Robert kept telling her to shut up and not to watch as Stenko dragged the two bodies up into the motor home. When the bodies were inside Stenko closed the door. He was in there a long time before tongues of flame licked the inside of the motor home windows and Stenko jogged down the path toward the SUV.