Even though Jimmy and Todd and even Ellen went hunting with their fathers all the time.
Oh, and, by the way, older never made it onto the schedule.
How dangerous would a hunting expedition have been anyway? Stan never came back with a deer or pheasant; he couldn’t have fired more than a dozen shots.
Ransom continued to examine the house, which was smaller than he remembered, though he knew that always happened when seeing something — or someone — from the past that you’ve been thinking about for some time.
He noted the sliver of kitchen window. He remembered Stan sitting at the uneven Formica table before he left for work, always wearing the same: boots, jeans and a blue denim shirt over his wife-beater T-shirt (description only; like the boys, their mother never received more than a gruff glance or sharp word from Stan). He would sip coffee and read, never making conversation. Occasionally stepping into the den and closing the door after him to make or take a call. Ransom and his brother left for school with Stan still sitting at the table over his book or magazine and coffee.
Ransom was startled by his buzzing phone. It was Annie. He let it go to voice mail then turned his attention back to the side yard where he and his brother played.
Back to the front porch, where his mother would sit outside with a glass of wine disguised as juice in a red plastic cup. A big cup.
Back to the lawn he would mow every Saturday for the allowance that he was never given but had to earn.
Waiting, waiting, waiting to feel something.
But no.
Numb.
Then a curtain moved, yellow and brown.
The time was 10 a.m., a little after, and the owner — wife, probably — or a cleaning lady might be wondering what a sedan was doing parked in front of the house, with the driver in sunglasses on an overcast day no less. Not smart. Ransom slipped the Toyota into gear and rolled up the street, turning at the corner. He stopped at an intersection and pulled out his cell phone, did some research, made a few calls. Five minutes later he continued on, toward downtown Marshall.
The Ironworks Tavern was still in existence, about a mile from the house. It was on the edge of downtown, beside a river the color of dried mustard, and near what had been an unenclosed train station, where commuters would board one of the infrequent trains to Gary or to change to a different line for Chicago.
Ransom’s father never took the train but he came to the Ironworks frequently, after he got home from work and wolfed down supper, often standing in the fluorescent-lit kitchen, and then changed into a clean shirt and headed to the Ironworks.
Ransom now parked on the diagonal in front of the tavern, twenty empty spaces surrounding an occupied three. Inside, the large room was similar to what he recalled from the one or two times he’d been here with his mother, looking for Stan when they “happened” to be shopping nearby (though there was an IGA that was closer to home). The place would have been painted, of course, and the sports posters were of mostly existing teams. Jägermeister was for sale, as was Red Bull, according to the promotional signage. And, heaven help us, Hefeweizen was on tap. Stan, a beer drinker exclusively, wouldn’t have approved.
Ransom was amused that breakfast was being served, which also would have been unheard of twenty or thirty years ago. Four saggy people at three tables forked eggs, sausage and bacon into their mouths. Cigarette packs bulged in several shirt pockets. Ransom bet that at least one or two were wondering what the consequences would be if they lit up after they finished.
Ransom picked a shaky stool at the bar and told the elderly man behind it he’d like a coffee. The stooped guy gave Ransom a careful scan. “Just regular,” Ransom told him, eyeing a steaming glass pot. Behind the bar was an espresso machine but it looked like it had never been used. He didn’t like fancy drinks anyway.
“Yessir.”
“You’re Bud Upshaw?” Ransom asked when the man brought a mug and two Mini-Moo’s creamers. An old-fashioned sugar shaker eased forward as cautiously as the man’s eyes. “Yessir,” he repeated. He was about seventy-five, with a face aggressively wrinkled. His complexion was an odd shade — not tan, not ethnic, but some curious tone of dark. Ransom thought of the unfortunate river out back. He was sinewy and where his hair had been now clustered a dozen age spots.
Ransom hadn’t wanted to waste the time of coming to this part of town if the Ironworks wasn’t here any longer or if there was no one on staff from twenty years ago. His call earlier had been to the Shady Grove, where the desk clerk told him that the Ironworks was still a “Marshall landmark” and Upshaw, the owner for three decades, was still “chief cook and bottle washer,” which happened to be one of Stan’s favorite expressions.
The man was definitely uncomfortable and at first Ransom thought it was because he was dressed in a business suit and tie and had a lawyer look about him. Reason enough to be cautious in Marshall, where credit problems carried off as much peace of mind as lung cancer did lives. But, no, it was Ransom’s face that drew most of Upshaw’s attention.
“You know me?”
Ransom might have seen a much younger version of the man but couldn’t recall. He said, “I don’t. My father might have. My family used to live here years ago. I’m in the area on business and thought I’d stop by.”
“Father…” Upshaw was whispering. And some troubled thought was clearly volleying around in his mind. Then: “When was it? That you lived here?”
“Oh, I left over twenty years ago. I was a kid.” Finally he couldn’t let it go any longer: “Something wrong?”
“Nosir. How’d you know my name? Just curious.”
“Fellow at the Shady Grove. Clerk.”
“Sure, sure, sure.” Though this didn’t make Upshaw feel any better. He scanned the breakfasters uneasily and scribbled out a check for one table, then scurried to deliver it.
Then, returning to his roost behind the bar, Upshaw froze. The old man whispered, “Stan Fells.”
“That’s right. I’m Ransom, his son.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Uh-huh.” His eyes scanned the room and it seemed to Ransom that he was looking for help.
“There a problem?”
“I…No.”
Though there was. Clearly. And this intrigued Ransom a great deal.
Upshaw aggressively dunked a dishcloth and wrung it out several times. Dunked again. He continued, “So. Your dad in the area? You going to meet him here, by any chance?”
“My father? Oh, he died nine years ago.”
“He died, what happened?” the man asked. Not an unusual question, under the circumstances, but the speedy velocity of the words was curious.
“Car crash. Sorry to have to tell you.”
Only Upshaw himself didn’t seem troubled about the news. In fact, he looked positively relieved.
Upshaw nodded thoughtfully and ignored another man waving for a check. “So, dead. He was the last.”
“The last?”
“Of the Round Table.” He gestured to a dim corner, where a booth — which was square — now sat. “Stan, Murphy, Shep, Mr. Kale. The regulars.” He fell silent as the diner approached with some irritation. He now paid, leaving coins for a tip. Upshaw didn’t pay any attention.
“Car crash. Round here?”
Stan had skidded off the road into a river in Michigan, returning from a trip to Detroit. He told Upshaw this.
“Detroit,” the man whispered, as if this, too, was significant.
Intrigue hummed at a higher pitch in Ransom Fells’s heart.
The dishrag went for another swim and wringing and Upshaw mopped a part of the scabby bar that needed varnish, not soapy water. The man’s face revealed an odd milkshake of emotions: He was wary of Ransom, he was curious, he was relieved. It didn’t make any sense. And the mystery continued as Upshaw asked, “Your father ever mention me or the place?”