The View from Mount Joy (31 page)

“Steve Alquist was working at the feed plant?” I asked. That place was considered the last resort as far as employment in Granite Creek went.

“Yeah, and then he started drinking,” said Gary. “You know, one domino of bad news knocked down the next and the next. Anyway, he’s doing good now and definitely ready for a change…. I think he’d be a good man for the job.”

“But the drinking?”

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem. He’s been sober for almost a year. And you know his personality, Joe—everybody likes Steve.”

It was true. Everyone liked Blake Erlandsson, too—Ole Bull’s version of Steve Alquist—and yet neither had gone on to do anything that their high school glory suggested they might. Blake was doing fine as a pharmaceutical rep, but I don’t think his goal in life had been repping blood thinners and pain relievers.

Steve came down from Granite Creek for an interview, and despite the two wives and the stint at the feed plant and problems with the bottle, he had that old Alquist charm, albeit tempered with humility, and I hired him.

It was after helping him get settled into the West Des Moines Haugland Foods that I ran into another old acquaintance, the star of the PPP Network and saver of souls, Miss Kristi Casey herself.

After a full day at the new store, I was at a truck stop, eating a BLT with too much L and not enough B, reading the
Des Moines Register
and drinking coffee so bitter you would have thought the beans held a grudge. I choked, sputtering droplets of the bitter brew onto the newspaper, when I saw the headline: “Blind Local Artist Draws Kristi Casey.”

The waitress, who’d seen me spewing my coffee, approached me, one hand on a padded hip and the other holding the coffeepot like a beer stein, and asked, “You okay?”

I nodded as she topped off my coffee. “Fine.”

I folded the paper in half and began to read.

Herman Mitterweld, legally blind from macular degeneration, will paint Kristi Casey’s picture this morning for an episode of
On TV with God,
her popular show on the Personal Prayer Power Network. Herman, a retired custodian at the Bank Hill Elementary School, says he was never artistic while sighted, “but once God took my regular sight away, he gave me the power to see the divine in people, the things most people can’t see.”

His paintings, rendered in pastels, have art critics calling them “amazing in their use of space and color,” and “almost spiritual in their blasts of joy and light.”

Kristi Casey, who occasionally goes on location to do shows with people whom she calls “called by God to do something special,” will sit for Mr. Mitterweld in his garage studio.

Mrs. Mitterweld, a fan of Miss Casey’s, is thrilled.

“She’s the prettiest one on TV, that’s for sure. Plus she’s entertaining—some of those Power Network people just go on and on about the Bible and such and never crack jokes. Believe me, when you live with a blind husband who paints the divine in people, you need your jokes.”

I looked at my watch—it was almost eight o’clock. I took a last gulp of coffee, shuddering as it went down, left the waitress a big tip, and went out to track Kristi down.

It was very likely that she had already left town, but if she was staying the night, she was probably staying at the Windemere, the fanciest hotel in Des Moines. I got back on the freeway and headed toward downtown.

The guy at the front desk was not going to be much help.

“Could you please tell me if Kristi Casey is staying here?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “I could not tell you that. Our client list is confidential.”

His hands were folded on top of a two-day-old
New York Times
Sunday crossword puzzle, one I had already done.

I leaned over the counter, turning my head to better see the puzzle.

“Hugh and Cary,” I said.

“What?” said the clerk.

“Nine down. ‘A couple of wishes.’ In this case, they mean Grants. So the answer is Hugh and Cary.”

The clerk lifted his hands and looked at the puzzle.

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “I get it.” He penciled in the answer. “I’m kind of new to these. My girlfriend says people who do crossword puzzles tend to be go-getters, and she likes go-getters.”

“Who doesn’t?” I offered.

The clerk looked at his co-worker at the end of the desk and said in a low voice, “I really can’t tell you anything about Miss Casey. She doesn’t want her privacy disturbed.”

“I understand that perfectly,” I said, taking out my wallet. I withdrew a twenty and pushed it toward him. He looked at the bill and then at me.

“All I’m asking is that you call her room and tell her Joe Andreson is down in the lobby and would like to see her.”

He pressed his thin lips together and his wispy mustache sagged. Slowly he pinched the corner of the bill and slid it off the counter before punching a number on his telephone.

“Yes, Miss Kristi, ah, Miss Casey, this is the front desk,” he said, his professional hotel voice cracking a little. “There’s a gentleman here, a Mr. Joe Anderson—”

“Andreson,” I corrected.

“An-dray-son, who would…Oh, all right. Thank you, Miss Casey.”

He hung up the phone and stood taller, the way a private will when an officer passes by. “She said to send you right up. Room eight-ten.”

I knew Jenny and the kids were having dinner at her sister Jody’s house, but I called her on my cell phone on the way up and left a message that I didn’t know when I’d be home, but it would probably be late.

“Joe Andreson, as I live and breathe,” said Kristi, opening the door and welcoming me with a big hard hug. “Jesus Christ, it’s good to see you.”

Laughing, I let myself be pulled into her suite.

“Didn’t you just break a commandant?”

“I didn’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” said Kristi, not missing a beat. “I said ‘Jesus Christ.’” She stopped in the middle of the room and, still holding my hands, swung my arms out and back again, as if we were about to begin a minuet.

“Joe, you look great. A little grayer than when I last saw you, but no paunch—that’s good. I’ll bet you’re still your college weight.”

I couldn’t help but be flattered, even as I knew Kristi used flattery the way a spider uses its silk—there was always a plan in mind.

“Give or take five pounds,” I said. “And look at you. I can’t believe you’re forty-four.”

“Don’t you dare tell anyone,” she said, putting a finger to her lips. “I stopped counting at thirty-three, and I expect the world to do the same.” She walked to the bar, and I was afforded a pleasant backside view. More enjoyable to me than the slim curves underneath her dressing gown, however, was watching her walk—still the same light-footed, shoulders-back gait she’d had strolling the halls of Ole Bull High.

“What’re you drinking? I’m having a rum and Diet Coke.”

“Fine with me,” I said, looking at my watch.

“It’s eight fifty-three,” said Kristi, as if she’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t be doing. “Still early enough for this to be a completely respectable meeting.”

“It
is
a completely respectable meeting,” I said, taken aback.

“Dang,” said Kristi. She walked across the room, her silk robe swishing and waving in ways that Jenny’s quilted bathrobe never moved. She handed me my drink and sat next to me. “Because I was hoping we might have a nice fuck for old times’ sake.”

I was shocked but, not wanting her to know that, tried to deke her out.

“Is that how you talk to Johnny Priestly?”

Kristi hooted, clapping her hands. “I gave Johnny Priestly up long ago…for Lent, in fact.” She laughed again. “Really, this is a guy so fastidious that he parts his pubic hair.”

What can I say? She shocked me again, and this time my face must have shown it, because Kristi leaned back against the stack of ornate couch pillows and laughed.

“Oh, Joe, I’m just messing with you. That Johnny Priestly stuff was just…rumor.” She lobbed two of the couch pillows across the room and resettled herself. “How
are
you, anyways? Married, I hear, with about eight kids.”

“Three,” I said with a jagged smile. “There’s Flora—she’s a senior in high school. And Ben—he’s five. Conor is one.”

Kristi’s sip emptied half of her glass. “You’ve been busy.”

“And so have you. I read the thing in the paper today—how’d that painting go?”

Kristi smirked, an expression I knew well. “Guy’s kind of a nut—not that I don’t get my share of nuts. He had me sit on this skanky old chair—he said it ‘absorbed divinity, then bounced it back at him’—and then he starts scribbling on the paper and wiping the scribbles with his fingers. It gave me the creeps, actually, and the finished picture looked like something you’d find in any kindergarten anywhere.” She tossed back the rest of her drink. “Waste of time, if you ask me. But we’ll edit it so it looks like a miracle or something.”

Sighing, she got up and went back to the bar, where she mixed herself another drink. When she returned, robe swishing and waving, she sat at the end of the couch and, stretching out her legs, put her feet on my lap. When I pushed them off, she laughed and put them on again. I gave up the fight, knowing no matter what I did, if she wanted her feet on my lap, her feet would be on my lap.

I kept one hand on my glass and the other I rested above my belt buckle, since there was no room on my lap. She nudged this hand with her toes, laughing.

“Come on, Joe, don’t be so uptight. Give me a foot rub, will you?”

Setting my drink on the marble-topped end table, I took her feet in my hands and began kneading them.

“Oh, that feels good,” said Kristi, closing her eyes. “But you always did know how to make me feel good, Joe.”

I dug my thumbs into the ball of her foot, hard enough to get a yelp out of her.

“Ow! What the hell, Joe?”

“Kristi, please, just answer me one question.”

She took her feet off my lap and sat up at the end of the couch, her face devoid of its usual sly merriment.

“What?”

I drew out the moment; she wasn’t the only one who understood drama. I took a sip of my drink, then another, and then held the glass in front of me, as if its contents contained a rare wine and I was a vintner studying its complexities.

“Joe,” she said, her voice like an
ahem,
“I believe you were going to ask me a question?”

I turned to her. Even in her hotel room, she was cognizant of lighting and only had table lamps on—nothing direct, nothing overhead, so that the face I looked at was protected by softness. Still, I could see age in her face, and because she tried so hard to hide it, it seemed like it should be hidden, like it was something shameful.

“Who
are
you?”

She blanched but arranged her features quickly into an expression of bemusement.

“Well, you, Joe, more than anyone, should know that.”

“Are you kidding me? I have no idea who you are.”

She rose, or began to, and I knew her destination was the bar, but seeing that I knew that, she sat back down. She shook her glass and the ice cubes clattered.

“Joe, please. It’s been so long since I’ve been around a normal person—can’t we just relax and have a little fun?”

“What do you mean, a normal person?”

She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. One side of her robe dropped to the floor in soft pleats.

“I mean someone who’s not so—” She made a face and stuck out her tongue, making a noise that sounded like
bya, bya, bya.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Someone who doesn’t expect me to be so
Kristi.
”

I looked a long moment at her. “Is there any part of you that’s at all for real? Because everyone thinks you’re a big fake.”

“Who thinks I’m a fake?” she asked coldly. “Who’s
everyone
?”

“Oh, Kirk, your mom—”

“As if Kirk and my mother even
know
me.”

“You don’t give them much of an opportunity.”

She got up from the couch, but instead of going to the bar, she went to the big window that overlooked downtown Des Moines and stood looking out of it, her arms stretched out, her hands resting on the windowsill. Granted, the lights of downtown Des Moines aren’t exactly Vegas, but still, it was a dramatic moment, especially when she turned around and I saw that there were tears in her eyes. The odds that they were summoned up by sincerity rather than thespian skills were probably about one in ten, so I crossed my arms and settled back to watch the show.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice rusty with the fake emotion she was trying to pass off as real. “Why did you even come here?”

“I was curious, I guess. I have very fond memories of you, Kristi.”

She smiled and began coming toward me, but I held up my hand.

“Please, I’m a married man. A very happily married man. Getting a Kristi Special is not what I’m after.”

She stood about five feet away from me, hands on her hips, nodding as if she had been convinced of something. With a final sharp nod, she sat down in a chair across from me, helping herself to a cigarette from a silver box on the table next to her.

“Oh, you still smoke too?” I asked.

After lighting the cigarette, she shook the match as if she were punishing it. She answered in a deep, preacherly voice. “Yes, I am still full of the vices with which the devil still tempts me.”

When I didn’t answer she said, “Give me a break, Joe. I’ve got to have some releases. You cannot
begin
to imagine the stress I’m under.”

“No, I can. I mean to have the world think you’re one way, and then in truth be totally different…that
must
be hard.”

She squinted her eyes at me as she exhaled.

“You really think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, then let me help you. What do you want to know, Joe? Ask me anything, anything at all.”

Out of all the questions I had to ask Kristi, the one I blurted out was, “Why do you ignore your own mom and your own brother?”

“I don’t ignore my mother,” she said defensively. “I call her.”

“You missed her wedding.”

Kristi sighed. “Joe, I don’t think you understand my obligations. I can’t be in more than one place at a time. I can’t be everything to everybody.”