“Who’s this?” a voice was saying on the other end of the phone as Ben snapped back to the present. The voice was slightly clipped and accented, the aftereffects of American English overlaid on a childhood of his native tongue.
“Nelson?”
“You called his phone and you’re surprised to get him?” Nelson said, chuckling. “At least I answer my phone, unlike some other people who let machines do it for them.” The sounds of a raucous bar filtered through from the background, voices talking loudly over an even higher volume of a country-and-western song. It was Shania Twain, her words coming through like a coda to the conversation.
“Okay, so you’ve got a car. That don’t impress me much!”
“Nelson, this is Ben.”
“What? It’s too damned loud in here. Who?”
“Ben. BEN COLE.”
“Oh. Ben. Hello. Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Well, get your scrawny computer geek ass down here to Charlie’s and join me for a few beers. I’ll even buy you a Guinness if you’ll actually drink it this time.”
“Charlie’s? Where’s that?”
“… don’t get me wrong, yeah, I think you’re all right…”
“Chilkoot Charlie’s on Spenard. Where the hell else can a guy find a good brawl and sawdust on the floor?”
“I thought you hated Chilkoot’s.”
“Yeah, but I have to check on ’em every now and then.”
“… but that won’t keep me warm on the long, cold, lonely night…”
The absence of Lisa and his own familiarity with cold, lonely nights momentarily eclipsed the image of Nelson waiting for a response.
“So whadda you think? You’re Elvis or something?”
“Ben? Are you still there?”
“Yes, Nelson. I just…”
“Something’s chewing on you. I can tell. Get in your car and pick me up here. My car’s in the shop.”
Ben knew better. Nelson’s car had been in the shop for the past decade, which meant up on blocks since a disgusted Anchorage judge had tired of his drunk driving convictions and created a new taxi patron by permanently revoking his driver’s license.
“Okay. I’m on the way, Nelson.”
“Whatever. That don’t impress me!”
It took less than twenty minutes to pull up in front of the infamous bar. Nelson was already on the sidewalk waiting, and he climbed in, smelling of peanuts and beer and pointing west.
“Turn around. Head for Lake Spenard.”
“Why?”
“We need to go boating.”
“Nelson, you don’t own a boat… do you?”
“Of course. Turn around.”
They reversed course and parked on the eastern side of the lake by a grassy bank where a ramshackle wooden rowboat sat chained and padlocked to a tree.
“Hey, I’m not going out in that thing.”
“What thing?” Nelson asked, following Ben’s index finger. “Oh. Of course not. I wouldn’t either.”
“So… where’s your boat?”
“In here,” Nelson replied, walking to an old toolshed standing at a slight angle some five feet from the shoreline. He worked with the padlock for a few seconds and pulled the creaking door open to take out what appeared to be a large blue duffel bag. He extracted a folded-up mass of vinyl from the bag and pulled a string, standing back as an inflatable boat took shape.
“I won that two years ago,” Nelson said proudly, pointing to the boat. “First thing I ever won. And I’m fifty-nine this year.”
“Really?”
“Or fifty-six. I’m not sure. Somedays, twenty-eight.”
Ben locked the car and gingerly lowered himself into the two-man craft, taking one of the aluminum paddles Nelson offered and following his lead as they pushed off.
“We have to hug the shoreline to stay away from the planes,” Nelson said, nodding toward a Cessna 180 on floats just beginning its takeoff run down the lake.
“How much daylight do we have left?” Ben asked.
“About an hour, I think.”
They paddled around the bend into a calm part of the waterway and Nelson shipped his paddle and turned around.
“Okay, Benjamin. What did you want to tell me?”
Ben laughed. “What makes you think I want to tell you something?”
“I know you, Ben Cole. As my people would say, you have a good heart, and it is heavy.”
Ben smiled. “And you, sir, have good insight.”
“I also sing well, but it’s never kept me fed. Now tell me. The doctor is in.”
“There are many things I can’t tell you, because of the place I work.”
“I know. Go on.”
Ben outlined the dilemma of trying to find a problem in the massive computer program he’d written, only to turn up evidence of sabotage that was then erased. Ben kept away from the specifics, holding back, he hoped, anything considered classified, but even mentioning the possibility of a secret project could still get him in extreme trouble. “Talking around” top secret information was forbidden.
His words tumbled out, quietly at first, but impassioned, about the betrayal of a woman he liked and respected, even though she was his boss; the shock of realizing that someone or some group wanted the project to fail; and the reality that if he flew the last test flight, he would probably not be coming home.
“Maybe that’s my destiny, Nelson,” he said after a long pause. “Maybe it’s time to join Lisa, you know? God knows I’ve just been using work as an excuse to avoid living again.”
“Or dating.”
“Yeah.”
“Or even recreational screwing, which you probably haven’t done for at least two years.”
“Thank you so much for pointing that out.”
“You’re not a monk, Ben. You’re not even Catholic, as I recall.”
Ben shook his head. “My family was mainstream Presbyterian, whatever that means.”
“And now you expect some ancient Inupiat wisdom from me, right?”
Ben laughed and sat back, inadvertently rocking the boat. “No, I just wanted to talk to a friend.”
“Well, that’s good, because I don’t dispense tribal wisdom. You have to be licensed to do that.”
“Aw, heck, Nelson,” Ben said, trying hard to grin, “I expected incense, rattles, drums, and a sweat lodge.”
“Sweat lodge?” Nelson replied, looking thoroughly alarmed. “Hollywood’s warped your mind, Ben. That’s American Indian! Down south. Your basic Blackfeet, Ogalala Sioux, Cheyenne, and such.” Nelson’s broad face broke into a huge smile. “I mean, we understand the concept, but I’m a card-carrying Inupiat, remember? The guy with the hooded parka and the long lance chasing polar bears and whales? Next you’ll be expecting me to don a feather headdress.”
Ben chuckled, the momentary flash of humor a transitory replacement for the sadness Nelson could see reflected in his eyes.
They let a long period of silence pass.
“Ben, you think you’ve given up, but you haven’t.”
“No?”
“You called me, right?”
“Maybe I called to say goodbye, Nelson, and to thank you for being a good friend. And while I’m on the subject, if anything does happen to me, would you please take care of poor old Schroedinger?”
“Sure. I like old man Schroedinger.”
Ben cocked his head. “Why do you always call him ‘old man’?”
“Very, very old soul in that cat’s body. Who knows? Could be Archimedes, Caesar, or even Elvis.”
Ben snorted. “Well, now that’s enough to give me nightmares.”
Nelson raised a finger, using the thickest native accent he could manage. “‘Dere are more tings in heaven and earth than you have dreamt of.’”