Wait for Signs: Twelve Longmire Stories (3 page)

She smiled and nodded. “That’s right.”

I smiled—it seemed like the thing to do.

He pushed open the storm door, reached out, grabbed her hand, and half yanked her into the house. “God damn it, get in here before you wander out into traffic.”

He tried to close the door, but I caught it and held it open. He
struggled, but I figured I had him by a hundred and fifty pounds. His eyes had a panicked look. “You’re not coming in here.”

I took the aluminum frame in my other hand and pulled him through onto the porch. “Nope, you’re coming out here.” I looked in at the elderly woman and smiled reassuringly, holding up my index finger. “We’ll be just a minute.”

She nodded and gave me a little wave.

I turned to the old man, who had shuttled toward the corner of the porch like a sand crab. He looked uncertain and then spoke in a low voice. “Look, if you’re a hobo and need some change . . .”

I shook my head.

He studied my bathrobe, even going so far as to check my wrists for a medical bracelet. “If you’re from some loony bin . . .”

I took my hand down and leaned on the other side of the door. “Do you know who I am?”

He clutched his arms in an attempt to ward off the cold. “Well, I know you’re not Jesus Christ.”

“I’m Walt Longmire, the sheriff of this county.”

He adjusted his glasses and leaned in, peering through my beard and hair, finally leaning back and nodding his head. “So you are.” On more solid ground, he smirked. “I hear tell you’re a drunk.”

I looked out in the yard toward the east where the sun was still struggling to shoot a beam over the frozen ground of the Powder River country. “Is that what they say?”

His teeth were starting to chatter now. “Yeah, it is.”

I stretched my jaw in a wide yawn again and tried to feel the cold, but it just wasn’t there; in all honesty, I just wanted to
feel something, anything. Maybe that’s why I’d drunk so much after Cady left last night. “Well, they might be right.” I straightened my robe. “My wife died a couple of months ago.” I threaded my fingers through my beard and felt crumbs in there. “It wasn’t a perfect marriage by any means; we fought, about stupid things—when our daughter should go to bed, the color of the mailbox, money . . . But she was the best thing that ever happened to me.” I took a deep breath and exhaled, watching the twin clouds of vapor roll across my chest like a cartoon bull. “Maybe the best thing that ever will.”

He glanced at the closed door and then at the house slippers on his feet.

I flicked my eyes to the door as well. “She seems nice.”

He nodded. “Esther, her name is Esther.” He automatically stuck out his hand. “And I’m Ernie—Ernie Decker.”

I shook his hand and noticed the swelling and bruises. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Decker.”

He quickly tucked the hand back under his arm. “We’ve hit a rough patch these past few months.”

“Well, at least you’ve got her to have a rough patch with.”

We stood there for a while longer, then I pushed off the doorjamb and started toward the steps; I stopped on the second to turn and look at him, my head dropped, hair covering my face, and I was pretty sure that even from this distance, my voice was vibrating his lungs: “You hit her again and I’ll be back, and this time it won’t take me two thousand years.”

I walked down the shoveled path and driveway, took a left on Main, and struck off back the couple of miles toward the highway. After a moment, the tan Oldsmobile that had been
parked at the Sinclair station pulled up beside me, and I heard a window whir down.

“Walter?” I stopped and turned to see the Methodist preacher leaning across the seat to look up at me. “I thought I’d follow you and see if you needed a ride back to your truck.”

“Thanks.” I continued to watch for the sunrise as I tightened the sash on my robe. “But I think I’ll just walk.”

She paused for a second. “Are you all right?”

“Yep.”

“How is the woman in the car?”

Watching the skyline still flat as a burned, black pancake, I chewed on the skin at the inside of my lip. “I think she’ll be okay.”

“She seemed awfully confused.”

Just then, I thought I might’ve caught sight of that first ray that shoots over the edge of the earth like a hopeful thought, and maybe, just maybe, I might’ve felt something. “Well, like the rest of us . . .” I sighed. “She’s just waiting on something.”

You steel yourself against those unexpected surprise visits in your mind, but it does nothing to prepare you for the physical evidence of a life shared, a life lost—her voice on the backlogged messages of the answering machine, photographs used as bookmarks, a song she used to hum, people who knew her but didn’t really, asking about her in casual conversation. Others telling you they know what it’s like when they don’t. If you’re lucky, you convince yourself that the only real world is the one in your head, and you make a fragile and separate truce that lasts until one of those depth charges erupts and you can no longer run silent or run deep.

It happened at the Busy Bee Café on a Tuesday morning two days before Christmas. As I waited for “the usual,” I’d reached across the counter to snag the newly delivered
Durant Courant
and flipped open the first page—and there was my wife’s obituary.

I don’t know how long I was frozen like that, but when
Dorothy, the chief cook and bottle washer of the establishment, refilled my coffee cup, she spotted the grainy black-and-white photograph. I suppose it was her voice, behind me and to the right, that brought me back.

“Oh, Lord.”

I went home early from work that day, and nobody asked why.

I parked the Bullet behind the house, because I thought it would be easier to unload the cord of firewood that I’d stored in it through the back door. I draped my uniform shirt and gun belt on the back of my chair and took another shower, put on a flannel shirt, a pair of jeans, and my old moccasins. I opened a can of soup but left it on the counter; then I sat in my chair and drank eleven Rainier beers.

When I looked up, it was sleeting and dark.

*   *   *

The afternoon it happened had been one of those warm November days we sometimes get on the high plains, with a friendly chinook from British Columbia that stays the freeze that can solidify your marrow.

She wanted to sit outside on an old wooden chair I’d bought at the Salvation Army, the red paint peeling away and revealing the gray, weathered wood underneath. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

Her eyes were closed, but she opened them then, the pale blue matching the Wyoming sky that we could see through the windows of our tiny cabin. “Fresh air is good for you.”

I put on the kettle to make tea, wrapped her up in a thick Cheyenne blanket that Henry had given her when she had
gotten sick, and carried her outside where she could see the naked trees in the draws of both Piney and Clear Creeks, the branches moving only slightly as if the cottonwoods were stamping their roots to stay warm. “Could you get my Bible?”

I went back in and retrieved her Book from the nightstand downstairs where we’d moved the bed. I placed it carefully in her lap, opened to the marked page. “Here, the feel-good book of the holidays.”

I watched as she fit her narrow finger between the pages like a bookmark. She smiled. “You should be more tolerant of things that give people comfort.”

I watched a great horned owl drift above one of the creek banks and hitched a thumb into my belt. “Hmm.”

“Tough guy.” Her fingers climbed up my pant leg and caught my hand there. “You know, a little forgiveness in your character wouldn’t hurt.”

I glanced down at her. “Not my line of work.”

She shook her head at my stubbornness. Except for the mild buffeting of the wind and the chirp of prairie finches, it was silent. “You know, I always thought you’d soften a little with age.”

I crouched by her chair, pulled the fine blanket up closer around her shoulders, and ran my hand across her back, the spread of my fingers as large as the trunk of her body. “Hang around. I might surprise you.”

She took a slight breath. “I’m trying.”

I went back inside at the call of the kettle and returned with two mugs, the paper flags flapping on the ends of the submerged tea bags. It had been a dry fall, and there wasn’t enough
snow to make it feel like a typical Thanksgiving, and the high desert was warm that afternoon. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer.

*   *   *

Being awakened ruined some of the best dreams.

Dog watched as I got up from the La-Z-Boy and tossed the same blanket that Henry had given her over my uniform and gun belt. I walked across the plywood subfloor to the window facing northwest where something was making noise. The wind was picking up, it had started to sleet, and the heavens had gone nickel-plated underneath the darkness.

There were the skeletal poles of a half-erected, Cheyenne-style lodge that the Bear had built in preparation for a New Year’s sweat. He hadn’t covered it yet, and it hunkered out there in the frozen grass like a naked fan, loose willow branches splayed toward the winter sky.

A few granules of snowy sleet had swept across the ridges along the Bighorn Mountains and collected in the low spots and windward sides of the European blue sage, and on one of the escaped structural limbs of the sweat lodge, a great horned owl sat with his back to me. The Cheyenne believe that owls are messengers of the dead and that they bring word from worlds beyond.

The alcohol was having an effect, like those electronic governors that keep modern cars from going over one hundred and fifty miles an hour, and my thoughts meandered back to the sunny afternoon when my wife had passed and to the days since when the owls had come to impart providence.

I raised an almost-empty Rainier to the window and
tapped the aluminum punt against the glass; the large head swiveled and the great golden eyes looked back at me. As the owl watched, I spoke to him with words that clouded the glass.

Dog barked from his spot alongside the sofa and moved over to the unpainted half-panel glass door. I belched, hung an elbow on the sill, and looked at him. When I glanced back, the owl was gone, and the frozen rain was already collecting on the splines of the partially assembled sweat lodge. Dog barked again. I thought I’d heard a knock but, considering the weather, was sure it couldn’t be a visitor and that something must’ve blown against the side of the cabin.

I pushed off the sill and walked past the sofa to the door, placed a hand against the glass, and peered across my porch to the two mud troughs that led across the irrigation ditch to the county road. There was a car parked in the drive close to the house, a taupe-colored Cadillac with Nevada plates. He stood to the side, his back to the wind and rain. The gusts that traveled up the drive blew his long silver hair around his face, and plastered his city-type overcoat against him. He was tall and thin and held some sort of package against his chest.

The man raised his hand to knock again, but when he saw me, he started and froze. I scooted Dog away with my boot and opened the door about ten inches. “Can I help you?”

The man leaned in close and looked at me as he adjusted a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on his long nose. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Longmire?” He hunched a shoulder against the wind and ducked his head. “I was wondering if it would be possible for me to speak to Mrs. Longmire?”

In my beer-fogged brain I thought of something Dorothy
had said, that these things always happened in threes—the newspaper, the owl, and now this. “I beg your pardon?”

He clutched whatever it was against his chest and pressed himself closer to the doorjamb. “I was wondering if Mrs. Longmire was available.”

I stared at him for only a moment more and then opened the door enough for him to squeeze through. He stood there dripping onto the dirty plywood and then sidestepped, trying to escape Dog’s nose in his crotch. Our faces were about eight inches apart—his was thin like the rest of him and, even though he’d been on the stoop for only a short time, his hair was molded to his skull. Underneath the khaki trench coat were an expensive dark suit, a rain-transparent white dress shirt, and a maroon tie the width of a tire tread. One of his hands was clutched around the package, which was in a Tyvek bag.

He pushed Dog’s nose away. “Not a fit night for man or beast.” He grinned for a moment, and then his features shifted to a look of earnest appeal. “I’m really sorry to be bothering you on a night like this, but is Mrs. Longmire in?”

I stuffed a hand in my jeans and downed the remainder of my beer. He was handsome in a talking-head, newscaster-gone-to-seed sort of way. “What’s this about?”

He stood almost at attention, gesturing with the plastic-wrapped package. “Mr. Longmire, my name is Gene Sherman, and I’m from the American Bible Company, and I’m sorry for the delay but the regional office wanted me to make a special trip out here to get this to your wife.”

I looked at the dripping bundle. “A Bible?”

He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

I crossed the room, crushed the beer can, and dropped it into the drywall bucket that served as my only trash can. “C’mon in and sit yourself down—dry off.” I reached into the fridge that had been sitting on the delivery skids for years and pulled out two cans. “You want a beer?”

He stood by the door, uncertain. “Thank you, but I don’t drink, Mr. Longmire, and I’ve got two more Bibles to deliver before I get to Douglas tonight.”

I nodded and gazed at the frozen rain that swooped out of the darkness and crashed against the glass, sliding down and freezing in patterns that looked like bars. “How about a cup of tea?”

He paused but then spoke. “Tea.”

I returned one of the cans to the refrigerator, opened mine, took a sip, and stared at him.

“Actually, tea would be nice.”

I turned the kettle on with a soft pop of propane, snagged a dishcloth from the handle of the range, and crossed back toward him, handing him the towel. “Here, something to wipe your face off with.” I gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” He sat on the edge, his knees together, and reached a hand out to pet Dog, who had returned to his spot beside the couch. “Big dog.”

I stood by the back of my recliner, my arms resting on the Cheyenne blanket. “Yes, he is.”

“What kind?”

“Heinz, fifty-seven varieties.”

He laughed politely, and then there was a long silence, long enough to make him uncomfortable. He glanced down the only hallway in the cabin and up into the loft. “Is Mrs. Longmire in?”

“No, she’s not.”

He nodded and looked down at the package in his hands. “Are you expecting her?”

“Not particularly.”

His eyes came back up. “The reason I ask is that there’s a financial remuneration concerning the model she ordered from the American Bible Company. Mrs. Longmire showed exquisite taste in picking the special heritage edition.” He carefully shed the Tyvek from the tome and held it out for me to see. There were two other books that still lay swaddled in the bag. It was a very large, leatherlike volume with my wife’s name impressed in gilt across the lower right-hand side of the cover.

I took a swig as I marveled at the Bible. “Is that leather?”

He smiled. “Leatherette—superior. It wears better, and that’s something to take into consideration with a fine edition such as this that will be gracing your home and your children’s homes for years to come.”

I stepped back to the particleboard counter, turned over a mug, and retrieved one of the six-year-old tea bags from the cabinet. “I’m afraid all I’ve got is Earl Grey.”

“Oh, that’d be fine.” He took a deep breath and looked around, at the unfinished carpentry, the worn furniture, and the general untidiness of the place. “Is she away, visiting family perhaps?”

I crossed from the kitchen to my chair, rearranged the blanket again, and leaned on the back. “When was it my wife ordered this Bible?”

He did his best to look ashamed. “I’m sorry to say that it was over six weeks ago, which is why the company sent me out
personally to deliver the edition.” He shrugged. “I’m something of a problem solver—you see, with the special heritage version there are certain artisan aspects that simply can’t be rushed. It was a phone order, and I do apologize for any inconvenience that the delay might’ve caused, but if you’ll just have a look at the craftsmanship.” He gestured the Bible toward me. “I’m sure that you’ll be amazed at the quality of detail.”

“How much is it?”

We both listened to the wind pressing the sleet against the log walls of the cabin. “The basic price of this special book is one hundred and forty-two dollars, but with the personalization option—you can see Mrs. Longmire’s name in twenty-four-karat gold leaf here on the cover—the total comes to one hundred and eighty-eight dollars, not including tax, which you are exempt from, considering this is an out-of-state purchase.”

“And where exactly is the American Bible Company located?”

He showed me his teeth. “Henderson, Nevada—right near Las Vegas. If you’re going to produce the Good Book, what better place than Sin City?”

I showed him my teeth in return. “Amen.”

He brightened and smiled more broadly. “Are you a religious man, Mr. Longmire?”

I sipped my beer. “Not so much. My wife used to tend to the religion for both of us—my interests were more of this world.”

“Used to?”

“My wife is dead, Mr. Sherman.”

He rested the Bible on his knee, the other two still lying at his feet, and leaned back as if he’d been struck. “I’m terribly
sorry.” The wind, snow, and sleet continued to buffet the cabin as we sat there. “Was it sudden?”

“Evidently.”

“I’m shocked.”

I nodded. “Imagine how I feel.”

He shook his head. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss and even sorrier to intrude on your grief.”

“Thank you for your concern.” The kettle was beginning to grouse.

He nodded enthusiastically but then slowed with dramatic sorrow and held the Bible at an angle where I could easily read my late wife’s name. “Your wife, Martha, she was very keen on the idea. I was fortunate enough to speak with her personally.”

The kettle roused itself to full voice behind me. “Really?” It was now screaming. “I’d be interested to hear what she had to say—considering she’s been dead for six years.”

He didn’t move.

I took the last sip of my beer, crushed the can, and dropped it into the drywall bucket to join the others. I studied him for a moment more and then stepped to the range, picked up the kettle, and poured hot water into the mug. I stirred the mixture with a spoon and glanced back at him. “Do you take anything in it?”