Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre(9)
Carmen jumped in with, “Did you get paid for all your sculptures before they were done?” which garnered a nod and meek “yeah” from her wife.
“There’s paycheck work and there’s project work.” Vincent shrugged, which prompted Reinhardt to talk about how Europeans have a much more balanced sense of identity than Americans. “Across the pond, who you are isn’t just what you do.” It was a little confusing given that he was actually saying this to a European (I think) but I really didn’t care. I was so grateful to everyone for coming in and saving the moment. Maybe a little too much, because Tony now swerved back to a more neutral stance. “Mosty’s just trying to understand Dan’s journey, albeit in her own unique way.”
And when he added, “And she is quite unique,” the room’s chuckles became laughter. Even Mostar seemed in it now, smiling with raised hands in this “you got me” gesture. It didn’t appear to bother her at all. Not an ally in the room and she looked totally okay with that. I would’ve died.
Not that I feel bad for her, though, especially when we said good night, and she gave Dan a sidelong glance. More like a smirk, like “I’m totally onto you.” I’m sure that’s why I couldn’t sleep last night. I tried to convince myself to read instead of re-watching The Princess Bride. I’ve loved that movie my whole life. It’s worth the melatonin-reducing light from the screen. I needed the familiarity, the comfort.
I feel…
I wish…
I can’t wait for our Skype session next week. Maybe I’ll call you and see if we can move it up. I really need it. Especially after today.
Dan and I didn’t talk about what happened at dinner. Why would we? When was the last time we really talked about anything? I could tell he was upset. You can always tell by the couch time. If he comes to bed an hour or so after me, he’s miffed. If it’s the middle of the night, something’s really under his skin. If I find him asleep in the morning, iPad on his stomach…
He’s there now. Awake, but not helping me. I think he can hear me unpacking upstairs. I’ve just been reassembling the shelves. Three of them, two large and one waist high, with long steel support poles. They’re heavy, and loud. He must have heard me banging them together. Maybe not with his music. Did I mention that you can sync different rooms for different devices? I guess it’s supposed to give everyone their own personal space, but since Dan’s claimed the living room and those are the biggest speakers…
I can hear it through the door. His early ’90s loop.
Goddamn “Black Hole Sun.”
Wow, I am really angry. I’m not used to feeling this way. I don’t like it. Maybe a walk later, hike the trail, clear my head.
I need it. The knot is back.
From my interview with Frank McCray, Jr.
Kate Holland’s brother has aged considerably from the social media photos taken barely a year before. His cherubic features have narrowed, his hair thinned and grayed. The former Cygnus attorney is intense, impatient, with an undertone of muted anger behind each word. As he reaches his right hand out to shake, I notice the other resting on a holstered Smith & Wesson 500 revolver.
We meet at his “temporary base camp,” a motor home parked at the end of a paved road at the foot of the Cascade Range. Before meeting in person, he warned me that there wouldn’t be too much time to talk. He reminds me of that fact again as he invites me inside. While neat, clean, and meticulously organized, the vehicle’s cabin is crammed to the roof with equipment. I see camping gear, freeze-dried food, the hard, black plastic case for a very expensive weapon scope, and several boxes of various firearm ammunition.
McCray ushers me to a narrow bench at the dinette, then sits across from me, next to a bulging backpack and sheathed hunting rifle. Between us sits a small, well used BioLite camp stove, the kind that uses thermodynamics to charge personal devices. McCray removes a stained bandana from his checkered flannel shirt pocket and resumes cleaning the stove. A cold north wind rocks the camper, a warning of the winter months ahead.
Before I get a chance to ask my first question, he launches in with:
It’s my fault what happened to them. Not the volcano, obviously, or how it drove those creatures right toward them. I didn’t set up the situation. I just put them right in the middle of it. “Oh no, you’re doing me a real favor, please. I can’t sell the house till the market recovers. Please come take care of it for a while. Too many memories for me to live there. I promise you’ll love it.”
That was me, always pushing, always thinking I knew better. I was so goddamn proud that I’d gotten her into therapy, and how she was just starting to make progress. Her need to nurture, her fear of abandonment. I think, with a little more time, she might have been ready to admit that she blamed Mom for Dad leaving us, and how that blame kept her enabling Dan. Just a little more time. But then Gary and I split, and the house needed a sitter, and I thought…I thought…if I could just nudge her a little closer to the truth, build up just a little more pressure…
He spits into the bandana, then attacks a particularly stubborn stain.
I mean…even if she blamed me at the time, she’d totally thank me later, after it all worked out one way or another…
The camper rocks in the wind.
I thought I had all the answers.