Jim Harrison - The Ancient Minstrel

They had a hurried breakfast in her room the next morning with Mona only in her undies. She sprawled obscenely with her bagel but was also disconsolate.

“Mona, I’m like your father. It’s out of the question.”

“I don’t need a father. I got a letter from my real father this week. He wants me to visit him in Los Angeles. My mother has remarried and doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Sunderson sat there with an English muffin and an indelicate hard-on, quarreling with his own mind. He frankly felt cheap but if one more session got to Diane everything would be over with her. He suddenly ran from the room, took the elevator, and was out in the parking lot in a trice. He had forgotten his suitcase but Mona could send it. He hoped Mona’s father wouldn’t break her heart again.

He made the bar in Trenary in six tiresome hours and had a couple of doubles as he waited for Ziegler half an hour.

Ziegler’s tantrum was immediate. He had talked to his son who had obviously finally spilled the beans about what was going on in Ann Arbor. He knew it was all reprehensible in his father’s terms and had wanted to keep his sister’s secrets, but his wrangling with Sky Blast had given him a taste for revenge. The bartender came out to the bar porch to see what the yelling was about so Sunderson gestured Ziegler down the street. In his braying voice Ziegler offered Sunderson a $5,000 bonus if he would retrieve his daughter from Ann Arbor.

“Can’t do it. She’s over eighteen and that would be the serious felony of kidnap.”

“But she’s my fucking daughter,” Ziegler wailed. “I can’t give her up to a fucking California hippie. She was dating a quarterback a few months ago.”

Sunderson said nothing, reflecting on how many parents think that they virtually own their children. The children are never allowed to become independent beings.

Ziegler bellowed, “You chickenshit. You’re fired. I’ll fucking get her myself.” Ziegler ran for his car and swerved off in the other direction from home.

Well, it made the next morning’s Detroit Free Press in a big way. Pure mayhem. Sunderson caught up with it over breakfast at a local eatery, having returned to an empty pantry. Evidently Ziegler, the ex — University of Michigan football star, was the paper implied a very rough customer. According to Ziegler’s daughter Margaret her father and brother came into their house and immediately attacked “Mr. Sky Blast, a Zen teacher from California. Sources revealed that Sky Blast’s students howl like the primate howler monkeys during meditation which is unique to their sect. Mr. Sky Blast is also a trained martial arts champion specializing in judo. He defended himself capably from the attack and now all three are in the hospital. Margaret Ziegler reported that her brother hit Sky Blast in the face with a baseball bat. Ms. Ziegler called the police who quelled the fight with difficulty. Mr. Ziegler Senior is being charged with assault and resisting arrest in addition to other charges, including significant property damage to the apartment.”

Sunderson’s disgust was immediate and wholehearted. He didn’t feel culpable but was ashamed that he had had anything to do with these people. He called the chief of police for Ann Arbor and gave a telephone statement to the effect that he had worked for Ziegler in his efforts to retrieve his daughter but had been recently fired after refusing to simply kidnap her. “Wise choice,” the chief said. Sunderson had known him from long ago but had never liked him because of the man’s essentially fascist attitudes about police work. The chief told Sunderson he might have to come back to Ann Arbor as the case developed.

Sunderson noticed a waitress who had a startling resemblance to Mona. He couldn’t help staring, which started a long session of near nausea that lasted several hours. He knew he had to rid himself of his aimlessness and criminal activity, including Barbara. He called and asked her to meet him on his back porch in an hour. He chafed against the self-denial but he had to stop this sexual nonsense. He would have to become a hermit fisherman. Even in winter he could afford to go anywhere to fish. Both coasts of Mexico beckoned.

She arrived while he was having a stiff drink. She quickly made herself some lemonade on this crisp autumn day when the maples were sparkling in their multicolored beauty.

“It’s over,” he said to her.

“I was afraid you would say that. Just when I was really enjoying it.”

“You can resume with someone your own age or a college boy.”

“But I love you,” she pouted.

“Don’t say that. My friend the prosecutor said he had been tipped off. The paperboy saw us together in the living room and told his parents. They reported it. If I were charged I could get ten years for sexual abuse of a minor. I don’t have that many years left and I can’t bear the idea of spending them in prison. They’d love to convict an ex-detective.” He felt a bit desperate lying to her but somehow believed it would let her down easier than a simple rejection.

“We could run away together.”

“I’ve thought of it but there’s no safe place.”

As luck would have it Barbara’s parents, Bruce and Ellen, came driving down the alley in their boring beige Camry. Barbara waved and pulled the hem of her skirt down. She had worn an especially short one for his delectation. Bruce and Ellen came through the back garden gate. Barbara had stacked all of the autumn garden detritus near the gate for the garbage truck. Bruce looked coolly at the weeded garden.

“Nice job. You should do this at home.”

Sunderson got up to shake hands and offered a drink. Bruce was small and had a slightly nasty edge known as the small man’s syndrome .

“No thanks. I only drink after dark except in summer when the dark comes so late up here.”

“What are you drinking dear? I hope it’s not wine.”

“Lemonade,” Barbara said looking in her glass.

“Offer your mother some, dear,” Sunderson said. It was evident that Barbara wasn’t going to make a move to do so unless he said something.

They chatted like neighbors for a few minutes and then Bruce and Ellen were off for the store. When they left Barbara burst into tears again then went through the house to catch the last of the autumn sun on the front porch.

“I don’t see how you can leave me high and dry when I love you.” She started sobbing as he looked at her wonderful legs thinking that they should be around his neck. He had poured a huge drink when they walked through the house hoping it would make him calm and meditative. No such luck. He felt a flood of warm tears. The local paper had called repeatedly about the Ann Arbor violence. He hadn’t answered.

Suddenly she was running down the street toward home still sobbing. He felt more interior tears then saw her dreaded parents coming down the street in their Camry back from the short grocery trip. He waved, they waved. He felt light-headed from his first moral choice in recent memory though part of his motive was not to be in prison for the opening of trout season next spring. There was a virtual flash in his mind of Barbara’s gorgeous bare butt but he was undeterred. He already felt and was trying to subdue his regret. Good people don’t have it easy, he reflected, though he wasn’t really a good person.

It was a scant fifteen minutes before Barbara’s mother was doing a military march down the street toward him. He was happy he had refreshed his drink.

“My daughter is sobbing. I think it’s about you. Did you fire her?”

“No I didn’t fire her. She’s just starting to trim the hedges. She was unhappy this morning about something.”

“Well she seems to be sobbing about you. If her father finds out you’re up to something with her you’ll go straight to prison.”