Chapter Thirty-One

I spent the evening gathering what I needed for scouting Jerusalem Rocks. From my father’s office, I packed the maps and the enigmatic drawing of rock formations. For superstitious reasons, I grabbed the silly little Ruger .22 Bearcat and its box of bullets. I wanted Grandma with me in some form and figured her pistol was the tough side of her I might need.

I bagged a variety of portable food from the kitchen: granola bars, fruit, cookies, chocolate, and a couple bottles of water. From the storage room: a decrepit frame backpack, sleeping bag, thermal blanket, flashlight, folding hunter’s knife, small first aid kit, and safety goggles to protect my eyes from the stinging wind.

And then came the hard part. My father’s digital outdoor thermometer read forty-two degrees and the wind was blowing. I required warm clothes and hadn’t brought enough from Seattle. I needed to go into Daddy’s bedroom and find warm things that would come close to fitting me. Connie and I had avoided that room so far, and I had hoped to continue to do so indefinitely. Somebody, Connie I presumed, had closed his bedroom door and, by unspoken consent, it remained closed. Each of us was waiting for the other to broach the subject of cleaning it out. We were both avoidance queens, and I assumed I had a good year or two before facing that heartbreaking project.

While I lingered in the kitchen, postponing my entry into my father’s bedroom by eating toast and drinking hot chocolate, I obsessed about the reasons Rae had not come back to free me. Did I read her wrong? Was she off somewhere chortling over her sadistic trick? Did she simply forget me? Was she too busy and reluctant to send someone else to witness my pathetic circumstances? I remembered the look in her eyes as she left. She appeared convinced she would be back and felt terrible about leaving me there. Okay, so where was she? Forcing my questions to rest for the time being, I headed toward Daddy’s bedroom.

The door hadn’t been opened in weeks, probably since Connie chose the suit he wore to his funeral. When I opened the door, a blast of bedroom odors assaulted me. Used sheets, hair oil, socks, and his pipe tobacco. The air was close and fetid. Holding my breath, I moved to open a window but remembered that standing close to a window wasn’t the safest idea and worse now that it was dark. Instead, I swung the door back and forth several times to fan a few whiffs of fresh air into the room.

It was a large, masculine room, just like his office, furnished with heavy mahogany dressers and night tables. Bedside lamps with various ranch brands on the shades occupied each side of the bed. Only in this room, there was no taxidermy. That relieved me. The idea of a dead animal in a dead man’s bedroom gave me the willies. Everything was as if he were downstairs, watching TV before going to bed. I was nine years old again, Harriet the Spy, sneaking into his private space, searching for clues. I have no idea what clues I was looking for back then, but I’m sure I overlooked most of the good ones.

I waited in the middle of the room for the grief to press like a compactor. For whatever reason, I was spared the impact for the moment. All I felt was mournful longing. I realized that longing is one of the leavening ingredients in the grief recipe. Okay, I could live with longing. In fact, it was familiar. There it was, the sure knowledge that this loss, too, I would survive.

“Shit, Daddy, you have to help me. I can feel you around.” And I did. He was with me, in the unknowable but palpable form the dead take. His presence soothed me and I calmed to the point where I could enter his walk-in closet and take stock of his clothes. Because I knew he was present, my heart didn’t break. I knew it would another day, but not just then. To the left hung all his jackets and coats. I reached for his old Carhartt insulated hunting jacket, faded amber with green corduroy cuffs and collar. It had lots of pockets and the sleeves would be easy to roll up to accommodate my shorter arms. Plus, there was a hidden inside pocket for a handgun. I intended to fill it.

I rummaged through Dad’s drawers, found his thermal underwear, and chose a fitted insulated pullover. I took off my bra for comfort and pulled the shirt on, making my breasts feel cozy and protected. His pants and socks were too big, but I had my own. I found one of his winter sweaters, a dorky blue and white wool job with elk and snowflakes. I knew I’d keep that one for myself, oversized and comfortable.

After I found the knit hat that matched the sweater, I was ready to seal off the bedroom for the time being. But an impulse sent me to the bedside table where I opened the top drawer, knowing what was there. My father was a consummate self-defense nut. Set out like an artist’s tableau was a lovely Glock 36 along with its hand-tooled holster, belt, and two boxes of ammunition. I hefted and aimed the gun, noticing it was a little imbalanced for me but not unusable. Before snapping it into the holster, I checked to make sure the magazine was loaded. It was. I shoved the rest of the weighty ammo into a jacket pocket.

In the front hallway, I assembled and packed everything. I made sure I wore layers of clothes so that I could face the unpredictable northern Montana temperatures.

I kept the Glock and bullets in the jacket. I decided I would keep Grandma’s little Ruger with me on the Murano console. Using the hallway phone, I called Billy, knowing he was working his tables and not answering his personal cell. I wanted to leave a message and not talk to him.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said after his outgoing message. “Listen, I want you to do me a favor. I’m going on an errand and won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon. If I’m not around by supper, I’m probably in a little trouble. In that case, call the sheriff and tell her that I disobeyed her orders and need help. I know what you’re thinking, but really, she can be trusted. That whole bed thing, it was her trying to protect me. Just call her, okay? I’m going to explore some property. Don’t worry.” Fat chance of that, I figured as I ended the call.

The hallway clock sounded midnight. “Time to head out,” I said to the stuffed pheasant mounted next to the office door. He didn’t blink.