The Home Place: A Novel Read online

  Chance shifts and looks sideways at Alma as if he isn’t sure he should say what he wants to say. “But your parents didn’t really hold everything together, did they?” he says at last.

  Alma can’t hold back an angry glare, even after all these years. “It was all a big mistake, what happened with the business. They would have worked it out.” This belief is part of the architecture, the mental construct she maintains of home and history. She leans forward to pick up a small, serrated spruce cone that has found its way inside, a prickly thing, imperfect but as omnipresent as the sky. “Anyway, they didn’t and here we are. And the way it works is if I don’t take care of things, then I’m the one who cleans up afterward. That’s what I’m doing now.”

  “So you’re dealing with it by not dealing with it.” Chance has an ironic half smile. “Same old Alma.”

  Alma jumps up. This is the conversation every boyfriend for the last decade has wanted to have. She gives Chance her profile. “Maybe so. Pete used to tell me that when things go wrong I handle them by pushing them into a little black box with everything else I don’t want to look at, tighter and tighter, and one day it’s going to explode.” She pockets the spruce cone with a dry little laugh.

  “Pull your hat down tight and just LeDoux it?” Chance looks up at her.

  Alma’s laugh expands to take her whole body with it. She tosses the spruce cone at him. “Good one, cowboy.”

  Chance’s face opens into a full smile for the first time. “You carrying all the guilt doesn’t do them any good,” he tells her as he stands.

  “Maybe I deserve it,” Alma says. She hesitates, not sure if she wants to make this personal, then decides what the hell. “I’m sure you’ve wanted to punish me now and then.”

  “Maybe.” Chance shrugs. “Just a little. Or maybe I pushed you too hard and got what I deserved.” He straightens to his full height and pulls the cap back on. Alma glances up to take the measure of the adult Chance, all broad shoulders and eyes that take in everything, then she thinks better of it and returns her gaze to the flying machines.

  “I owe you a huge apology,” she says, with what little voice she can summon.

  “Water under the bridge.” He clears his throat and shuffles in the dust.

  “All this.” She gestures, lifting their eyes, lightening things. “You have a gift.”

  He bows his head, almost bashful. “I’m glad you think so.”

  “What are you working on now?”

  His head comes up. “You won’t believe it, but I’ve been restoring that old Chevy pickup to its original glory.”

  “I wouldn’t believe that the Murphrod had glory days,” Alma says. Chance’s old pickup, the Murphrod she called it, to tease him—the scene of way too many high school memories. “It was trashed twenty years ago.”

  “I’ll show you next time you’re over. It’s in the machine shed.”

  “Next time? Isn’t there a Mrs. Chance around here somewhere who’s going to mind an old girlfriend hanging around?” Whatever Hank Olson and Chance’s bare ring finger might say, surely there’s a woman.

  “There was. Not anymore. Just me and Mae.” Chance scoops up a couple of screwdrivers left out on a workbench and shoves them back into their brackets on the wall with a little more force than necessary.

  “Mae?” Alma inquires.

  “My daughter.” He stalks to the door and holds it open for her. This conversation is over. Chance’s stride is long and he doesn’t pull it in for her. Alma increases her pace and stretches out her legs to match him. This is where she learned to stalk Seattle’s broad sidewalks at a speed that makes her male associates break into a jog.

  At the house, Alma opens the storm door and they stand facing each other in the blinding afternoon sun. She has half a dozen questions about Mae—How old is she? Where is she? Does she look like you?—but she can’t force out even one.

  “You want to come out tomorrow morning and ride? I’ll bring Mae, you can bring Brittany. I want to show you something.” He jerks a thumb toward the corral. The look on his face is reluctant, but he won’t change course. She sees his conflict. Part of him must want to order her off his land, and part of him is still the soul that knew hers the day they met, small children saving nightcrawlers from the road in a warm summer rain. He thinks she’ll beg off, so that their rift can remain her fault. This is a dare, the sort of thing they used to do as kids. Race you to the creek! He’s trying not to make eye contact, but she catches his gaze and holds it. She won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her back down.

  “Sure,” she says, like it’s no big deal. “First thing tomorrow morning. I’ve got to spend some time at the home place or Grandma will have a panic attack.”

  CHAPTER 10

  MONDAY, 5 P.M. MOUNTAIN STANDARD TIME

  As soon as her cell phone starts to pick up a signal again, nearing the interstate, Alma finds a message from Ray Curtis, along with several from Amanda and one from her supervising partner, Louis McBride. The sun is nearly gone. Alma feels fatigue in her stiff neck, her hips and back conforming unnaturally to the driver’s seat. To be eligible for a bonus at her firm, she must bill an annual minimum of 1,950 hours. This sort of late-afternoon malaise is entirely familiar. She could work another six hours, easily. She calls Ray first.

  “I’ve been trying to talk to Walt, but your aunt says he’s gone out to a cabin past Nye. Have you heard anything from him?”

  “Not since I saw him last night,” Alma admits. “He wasn’t very friendly.”

  “Not friendly how?”

  Alma is very aware of Maddie and Brittany’s presence. Almost nothing Walt said is repeatable in front of them. “Could I call you back later?”

  “Sure. Or come by City Hall. I’ll be here until late. Just call my cell and I’ll let you in. We got the autopsy results back. I’d like to talk them over with you.”

  “Sure,” Alma agrees. “I’d appreciate that.”

  Back in Seattle, Louis is furious at the mere sound of Alma’s voice.

  “What are you doing out there at a time like this? This deal is closing by the end of the week and I need you here. Duncan’s turning himself inside out to cover everything on the closing checklist.”

  “Louis, I know it’s terrible timing, but it’s a family crisis. My little sister just died. I have to be here. I’ll do as much as I can remotely and I’ll be back in Seattle by the weekend.”

  “Look, I won’t drag you into my personal problems if you don’t drag me into yours, how about that? If you need some leave time go ahead and take it,” Louis snaps, “but if you’re still handling this deal, then I need to see your face the minute you get in from the airport. Otherwise I’ll have to pass it off to Duncan, and there will be consequences.”

  Duncan Moi is an associate three years Alma’s junior who drives a Porsche Carrera or a BMW motorcycle, depending on the weather; has dated half the paralegals in the firm and a few of the clients; and happens to be the nephew of one of the name partners. He’s been looking for a chance like this to move in on Alma’s practice, and Louis has been looking for a chance to help him. Bolstering Duncan’s career would have the double benefit of endearing Louis to the managing committee and undermining Alma, who intimidates him. Louis, a proud University of Washington law grad, falls bitter whenever any graduate of an East Coast law school succeeds in the local market. The fact that Alma is neither a UW grad nor a Washington native is a perennial topic of sarcastic conversation around Louis. He talks over her, edges her away from the head of the conference table, makes remarks about her hair or clothes instead of responding to what she’s saying, and likes to invite her clients on men-only golf outings.

  In what she hopes are diplomatic, conciliatory terms, Alma has spoken to Louis about his behavior, but he’s a lateral hire who brought a significant book of business with him and feels no need to get along with her. She doesn’t dare seek help from a partner—it would be perceived as weakness. Her choices are unattracti
ve. Either she can make a major issue of the situation and diminish herself in the eyes of the firm, or she can switch practice areas or perhaps even firms to distance herself from Louis. Running from a bully does not appeal, but Alma has begun talking discreetly to headhunters while scouting for ways to bring down Louis or Duncan—or both.

  Making the most of her functioning cell phone, Alma calls ahead to the funeral home. Hills’ on Central has been burying her family’s dead for as long as anyone could say. Maddie has already set the funeral date and time with old Jack Hill, but he wants them to come in and decide on details. Yes, he says, now is a great time. When Pete picks up the phone on the eighth ring, he makes work-related excuses.

  “Just let me know what my share is,” he tells Alma.

  Jack welcomes the three of them at the front door and offers to take their coats, but Alma declines and leaves hers buttoned to her chin. The place holds a chill for her that no form of mechanical warmth can dispel.

  “I don’t tend to see people in the best circumstances,” Jack says, “but it always is good to see them. You’re just the picture of your mother, Alma.”

  “That’s what everyone says.” But there’s something creepy about it, Alma thinks, coming from the man who embalmed her mother and prepared her body for viewing.

  “It was a beautiful service,” he continues, as if he’s read her mind. “So many people. So many friends.” He offers Maddie his arm.

  “Yes, I remember,” Maddie agrees, stepping up to walk beside Jack while Alma and Brittany follow, staying close to each other. Jack turns to talk to Alma as they move down the hall.

  “You were back for Al’s service a few years back. I saw you then.”

  “Five years ago. It doesn’t seem that long.” Alma takes in the innocuous Pottery Barn landscapes on the walls and waits for the chitchat to die. Jack Hill’s life is measured in the pauses between one funeral and the next, like an alternative calendar. Solar, lunar, dead people. Why not? To her it feels like half a lifetime since Grandpa Al’s funeral, but to Jack it’s the last landmark they passed together.

  “You still working for that same firm in Seattle? Corporate law, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right, same firm. I’ll be up for partner soon.” Her voice holds the correct animated tone for talking about her brilliant career, but her face can’t maintain the show. She sees reflected in Jack’s expression how stricken she must look. He reaches back and pats Brittany’s arm, closer to him, as a proxy for hers.

  “And that young man who was with you, name of Severson, wasn’t it? Did he come this time?” Hill looks around as if Greg Severson might appear behind Alma, carrying a few small children. Greg was the last in a succession of men who became unsatisfied with Alma’s evasions about her family and inability to say “I love you.” The words—the genuine emotion itself—came so naturally to him, and filled Alma with a sense of claustrophobia so intense that she nearly hyperventilated when his mother asked if it was serious.

  “We’re just not compatible,” she told Greg. “It’s convenient, but it’s not right.”

  “You might not accept it from me,” he told her before he left, “but you’ve got to get help from somewhere. It’s not healthy to keep so much locked up.” Alma can still hear the echo of the door she slammed on him.

  Now Alma turns her attention back to Jack with a forced smile. “Wow, I’m surprised you remember that. No, we broke up. He got a job in Singapore.”

  “Anybody new then?”

  “Yeah. His name is Jean-Marc, but he’s back in Seattle.”

  Only a day after touching down, Alma already has that Billings feeling, like no matter how far she goes, this town will always know her business. As high and mighty as she might get, here they will always remember her braces, her unfortunate junior high mullet, her air guitar band, or the church ski trip where she got busted for drinking wine coolers and skiing the double black diamond summit bowl at Big Sky, both of which were strictly off limits. The anonymity of a big city can be a blessed relief.

  “It’s funny, I saw Vicky just a few weeks ago,” Jack is saying as he leads the way to his office, and Alma’s mind wanders. “That Holiday station up on Grand. She was fighting with somebody. Long-haired guy.”

  Alma clicks back to attention. “Do you remember what they were fighting about?”

  “Well . . .” Jack hesitates, then nods and lifts a finger as the memory returns. “That’s right. I thought they were maybe housemates. They were arguing over a house. She wanted him out and he was angry. Told her she’d be sorry. That’s not—important, is it?”

  Alma’s memory of the office they’re in suddenly looms around her. This is where someone led her when she started crying hysterically at her parents’ funeral. Was it Chance? She can’t remember. “I— I don’t know. Probably not.”

  “I’m sorry.” Jack looks horrified. “If I’d thought it meant anything at all, I would have called the police.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll tell them. Don’t worry about it.”

  Jack pauses long enough to bring out a florist’s brochure. The next question is already on his lips. “You must be enjoying Seattle,” Jack continues. “Got a nice place, view of the Space Needle?” he says with a gentle chuckle. Ah yes, the financial evaluation.

  “I rent a little room from an old lady with a lot of cats.” Alma tilts her head at Jack with childlike sweetness. “It’s all I need.” Maddie casts her a severe look but says nothing.

  At Al’s funeral, Alma ran into a high school classmate who had acquired the chipper married name of Kirsten Kitchen and couldn’t wait to tell Alma about her real estate developer husband (who owns Maddie’s “mobile home lifestyle park”), their five-thousand-square-foot ski cabin, her exhausting home decorating project, her three stairstep children (with a conspiratorial “and another on the way!” as she patted a flat belly), and her many “prestigious” (yes, she used that word) volunteer obligations. Alma had liked Kirsten reasonably well in high school, didn’t really have anything against her, but as the ladies-who-lunch résumé multiplied, she began to have the evil urge to come up with something that would truly, deeply shock her. When Kirsten paused to take a breath while describing her family’s recent Disney World vacation, Alma leaned back and sipped her coffee out of the church’s thick ceramic cups. “I donated all my eggs,” she said with a shrug. “Let someone else raise the little buggers.” The look on Kirsten’s face was worth it. Alma finds herself half hoping that Kirsten will show up at Vicky’s funeral. She has a few more whoppers ready to go. High school–style competitiveness brings out the worst in her.

  After she consents to Maddie’s modest flower choice, Alma must walk through a room full of caskets and come up with the name of a preacher.

  “It has to be Leslie Kemp,” Maddie declares. “She’ll remember Vicky, and she’s head pastor now, you know. You just get the cheapest of everything, Alma. I know all this stuff costs a fortune and nobody knows the difference once you’re underground.” This is typical Maddie advice and she means it, but even Alma can’t bring herself to go for the cheapest coffin, which looks like flocked cardboard and would probably disintegrate in a hard rain. She upgrades slightly to a more elegant varnished pine with brushed nickel hardware.

  Back in his office, Jack pulls out a map of the cemetery and points to the family plot to ask where in it they would like Vicky buried. The names are all there, Alma’s parents among them. She has no memory of making these choices for her own parents. Al and Maddie must have done it, in this same room. Alma glances over her shoulder at Maddie, who sits attentively on the edge of her chair with a look of painfully forced interest. Brittany is hunched over, staring at her stained off-brand sneakers. Alma can’t imagine which grave Vicky would want to be near—she never got along with any of them. Even their parents were sparring with her the winter they died, over Vicky’s nascent interest in makeup, boys, and high school parties—a stage Alma skipped the way she skipped second grade. Maddie fo
lds her hands over her mouth and sits back in her chair, as if this decision more than any other is too much.

  “On the edge.” Alma points. “She liked it there.”

  For the stone, they consider the first lines of Psalm 121, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” The psalm is Vicky, all right, stuck in these hills, longing impotently to get out, destined to lie forever in Mountain View cemetery and dream the same girlish dreams of escape and rescue. But when Jack explains that you pay for every letter and calculates the cost, it seems absurd for a single verse whacked into stone. Alma decides on the family name in big letters and Vicky’s full name, Victoria Rose, beneath it with birth and death dates. Simple, dignified, cheaper.

  After Alma has handed over the credit card, Jack walks them to the car. He’s gracious in all these things, the little humiliations and difficulties that must be smoothed over with each untimely passing, yet he hesitates and stares at the ground, shaking his head, before he finds the words to farewell them. “It’s too much for one family,” he says at last. “I never thought I’d be here to bury another one of you kids. You just take care of yourself, Alma. I’ll make sure everything turns out right at the funeral.” With old-fashioned gallantry he helps Maddie into the car—assistance he probably requires more than she does—and stands at attention, waving a final salute as they pull away.

  Alma drops off Maddie before the second trip to the police station. Brittany dozes in the backseat. She opens her eyes to ask, “Are we going home now?”

  “One more stop, babe,” Alma promises. Parked across the street from City Hall, before calling Ray, she lets the car idle through a series of awkward phone calls to administrative staff at her client’s anticipated merger partner. Anything unusual happen lately? Any new paperwork coming through? With the rumors of layoffs, they can’t wait to spill their suspicions. Alma scribbles page after page, flipping through her legal pad with one hand, taking improvised shorthand. Nobody wants to be recorded or quoted—but boy do they want her to know what crooks their bosses are, how little is left in what should be a fully funded pension fund. It’s terrible news, it will sink the deal . . . and with it Duncan, who will never bother to consult the peons except to ask if they’re single. In spite of herself, Alma is smiling as she leans into the backseat to give Brittany a gentle shake.