The Ancient Minstrel

The Case of the Howling Buddhas

From his upstairs bedroom at 6:00 a.m. Sunderson could dimly hear his cell phone in his jacket pocket down in his study. It was more irritating then getting up to pee on a cold night. He was proud of the way his prostate was holding up at his age, also of his ears and their acute hearing in an era when many had destroyed their hearing with loud rock music.

The phone calls had been nearly continuous since 5:00 a.m. and he wanted to jerk the caller’s teeth out with his Griplock pliers. He normally arose shortly before 7:00 a.m., flipped the coffee machine on, and went to his study, pulled out a book from the shelf that blocked the window, and gazed at his neighbor Delphine doing her nude yoga. She knew he was watching and was enthused because it helped what she called “sexual repression.” Last Thursday she had masturbated in plain view, then called to say that her husband had gone to East Lansing and they could enjoy themselves. He hustled over to the back door in his old terry-cloth robe and she met him in her bare skin smelling of Camay soap.

Sunderson was ready early with his coffee and had pulled a study titled The Jongleurs for his view. She was flat on her tummy in a position called Snake’s Pose, one of his favorites as it showed her sumptuous ass and the concealed goodies. In the year or so they had been playing the game her husband had showed up only once to make love to her. Sunderson had quickly replaced the book. He didn’t want to start the day seeing a nude man, always a laughable sight. Her husband was a stiff who taught American literature at the local university. She taught anthropology and was tremendously popular with students while these same students ignored a course of her husband’s devising called “Faulkner vs. Hemingway,” as if the two writers had been in a foot- race. He had told Sunderson that he had hoped to become the department chairman and perhaps a dean someday. He was without apparent personality and she had told Sunderson that he had some money on the side which afforded them the opportunity to spend their summers in Europe. That was why she married him. The money enabled her to visit archaeological digs in southern France and Spain. Her academic career was limited because she had never finished her Ph.D. dissertation despite working on it for fourteen years. Her excuse was that her mentor professor at Cornell had died and no one else was capable of dealing with her complicated writing.

Sunderson had noted that his voyeurism lacked the punch it had when he was watching his young ex-neighbor Mona, whom his ex-wife had later adopted, in her nude calisthenics. His neighbor shifted into the Royal Flux with her legs flopped up and over her head. He actually yawned rather than feeling his worm turn. He was not prone to fully accepting aging though he knew very well that it was what caused his sexuality to be less than rampant.

The other day on a warm afternoon he was sitting on the front porch reading the paper, the Mining Gazette, when Barbara, a lovely girl from down the street, broke her bicycle chain in front of his house. He fetched his pliers and small hammer from the kitchen and fixed it, removing a link. It was too loose anyway. Meanwhile she squatted in front of him with her weight on her haunches. It was simply electrifying with her bare lovely legs under the blue skirt leading upward to the white undies with a slight indication of pubic hair. He was naturally engrossed and tarried at the simple job. She had done well in the state high school gymnastics championships but was lithe rather than short and muscular like most female gymnasts.

“There you are,” he said, finishing the job.

“Did you enjoy the view?” she asked coquettishly.

“Yes, frankly, it was wonderful,” he said taking a last look before she got up.

“My uncle Bob will sit on a chair for an hour if I’m on the sofa with my dress up a little. It’s really quite funny.”

“It’s the nature of man,” Sunderson said self-righteously. She had to be sixteen and above the age of consent.

“Boys are terrible now. All they want day after day is blow jobs.” She was apparently eager to talk about sex.

“Well, I suppose you avoid pregnancy.”

“I simply don’t like it one bit. I’m saving for college if you have any work you need done. I’m good at weeding. I get two bucks an hour.”

“I have a flower garden that needs work when you have time.”

“Sure thing.” She hiked up her dress to throw a leg over the bike seat, a view which gave him a jolt. She smiled and rode off.

She hadn’t returned as of yet. He meant to have her rake some leaves which he loathed doing. People in Munising used to be cheapskates. You’d rake for hours and get blisters on your hands for a couple of quarters that you very much needed. He was always saving for another fishing reel he’d seen in the Montgomery Ward catalog.

It was a warm day for September and later that morning he saw Barbara in a pair of tan shorts in the grocery store buying a box of Cheerios. He imagined her eating from her bowl in her early morning nightie. When she saw him she cocked her hips and apologized for not yet taking care of his flowers saying, “Maybe this afternoon.” He had no plans other than to watch the University of Michigan — Michigan State football game on television. When he got home he arranged a peeking laboratory up in his bedroom where a window looked out on the backyard flower garden. He adjusted its shade for concealment and polished his binoculars. Barbara made him lonesome for his ex-girlfriend Monica who had worked at the Landmark Inn in town, but now had a boyfriend close to her own age, a college student at that. Monica liked sex even more than he did and during their months together he was frankly so worn out that he missed a lot of the last week of trout season. Since Monica left a couple of months before, he had made love twice to his ex-wife Diane. He had had dinner at her place and been lucky enough to see Mona, who was home for the weekend from college, step out of the shower. He winced and ran for the kitchen where he had a nasty glass of Diane’s cooking sherry.

An insane desire occurred to him to go down on Barbara, as unlikely an idea as world peace. Did this call for the services of a mind doctor? Sexual fantasies could easily become tiresome, the mind migrated anywhere it could get its nose tweaked. He defended himself with the contention that Barbara was aesthetically overwhelming but even he had to admit that this was truly lame. Her father was on the city council and they had been at odds several times. He was a classic liberal who was sure the police were forever on the verge of taking away human rights from everyone.

He finally checked his cell for an explanation for all of the irritating predawn calls. They were from Ziegler, Marquette’s only possible tycoon. When Sunderson was still on the force and Ziegler’s son was thirteen, one of his friends had sneaked a five-pound joke turd, a true monster, into their toilet at a party and Ziegler had called the station demanding a police investigation to catch the guilty perp. The captain had Sunderson answer the call because Sunderson was thought to have married well and therefore to be a gentleman by the movers and shakers of the city. The captain of course knew this was an illusion. Ziegler was a local boy who had done phenomenally well, becoming an all-American tight end at the University of Michigan. He had graduated with high honors and his senior thesis had been published as a book. It was an exposé of his own family’s turpitude in the mining business. When they came in contact, which was not often, Ziegler always pretended he couldn’t remember Sunderson’s name, an old tactic.

His son and twin girls were students at the University of Michigan. Mona had said they were typically perky rich kids. On the phone Ziegler said that one daughter was a problem and arranged to meet Sunderson on a street corner three blocks away. He was careful about appearances and didn’t want people to see him consorting with a private detective. Sunderson met Ziegler’s Lexus at the corner. He was obviously transfixed by two girls doing wheelies on their bikes at the intersection. One was a sprightly, handsome girl, the niece of the president of the university, and the other was Barbara, her light short skirt flipping up to her waist. Legs to die for, he thought. He knocked on Ziegler’s window and got an irritated look then was beckoned into the car.

“I’d give thousands for a night with that one.”

“Which one?” Sunderson teased.

“Don’t fuck with me. I want those legs around my neck.”

“I think she’s underage. She lives three houses down the street from me.”

“I don’t give a shit. I’d take the chance. That’s what lawyers are for.”

“Her father is on the city council.” Sunderson said this with an air of threat.

“I don’t care. I can buy those little chickenshits for lunch.”

Barbara rode close to the passenger seat, looked in the open window. “I’ll be over in a little while after I pick up lemons for lemonade, darling.”

“Why the fuck is she calling you darling? Why is she coming over?” Ziegler exploded.

“We’re friends. She takes care of my flower garden.”

“A big tough detective with a beautiful pussy weeding his flowers. That doesn’t add up.”

“A medium-size ex — state police detective with ten black belts in karate.” He added the latter as manly decoration. Ziegler was restless as they danced around the main business.

“Here’s the killer. I sent one of my daughters, Margaret, a check for three thousand to buy duds because she got all A’s at the university. She signed over the check which was cashed by an organization called the Circle of Heaven and Hell. I had an old friend in the athletic department check it out. It’s a Zen Buddhist group headed by a California kook. Now I’m not so dense that I don’t know that Zen Buddhism is a time-honored group. But this cucaracha floated in with a costume of black robes and picked up a bunch of strays. He has them howling like monkeys.”

“Monkeys?” Sunderson played dumb. Ziegler’s wife had engaged Sunderson to look into the group when all three of the kids were involved, and he wanted to avoid reminding the man that he hadn’t taken it all that seriously. He wondered why the athletic department.

“Yes. That was the report I got. I want you to look into this. Obviously I pay well.”

That took care of that. It should be easy. He’d begin with Mona. She had looked into it before and he was sure she’d be up for it again. Meanwhile Ziegler implied he’d like to come over in order to see Barbara again. Sunderson, wanting privacy for his voyeurism, said that he had too much work to do.

“What does she wear?” Ziegler asked plaintively.

“Soft khaki short shorts. She’s working on a tan.”

Ziegler looked up at the sky through the windshield as if some answer might be there. He shook Sunderson’s hand.

“Let me hear from you ASAP.”

“Of course.”

Sunderson walked hurriedly home to assume his upstairs perch. He reached the front porch just as Barbara pulled into the yard with a sack of lemons. He waved her into the house and followed her down to the hall into the kitchen with a sharp eye on her wagging butt cheeks.

“I’ll work an hour or so then make lemonade. It’s all that I’m eating. I’m trying to drop a few pounds.” She patted her perfect butt as if it were overweight.

“Don’t lose an ounce. Your butt is perfect.”

“How do you know? You’ve never seen it. Maybe it’s covered with acne,” she said with a teasing grin.

“I’d appreciate a glance,” he mumbled.

“I have to deal with my conscience. You don’t. A divorced man is asking to see my ass. It seems harmless.”

“It’s an aesthetic exercise,” he interjected.

“Oh well, Mr. Sunderson needs help.” She turned and bent slightly, pulled down her shorts speedily, no undies, and then back up. “First you see it, then you don’t,” she laughed.

He had concentrated on taking an imaginary photo with his eyes. The butt was superb and he felt breathless with his heart pounding. “Once more, please.”

“Not a chance. Maybe after my lemonade when I take my shower. I’m going sailing this afternoon.” She was holding a pair of knee pads for weeding. “Let’s make a deal. You get another look at the butt if you squeeze the lemons, and if you can help me with something I’m doing for a friend.”

“Fair enough,” he said as she hurriedly left the kitchen and went out the back door. Through the screen it was fetching when she bent over to put on her knee pads. A cautionary note flickered in his brain but failed to shine brightly. Toward the end of his relationship with Monica he had a drink with the prosecutor to discuss a case of vandalism at the local marina, where he’d done several big investigations in his time, and toward the end of the meeting the prosecutor had used the old expression “a word to the wise” which meant a bomb of some sort would drop. The upshot was the prosecutor claimed that he had received several complaints about Sunderson living with an underage girl. Her parents were both dead and that was why the case raised suspicion with local busybodies. Monica was actually nineteen, so there was no crime, but the prosecutor seemed to keep an eye on him after that.

Now here he was looking out his bedroom window at Barbara through binoculars. She was on her knees in the dahlias with her butt arched up like a beautiful house cat. He recalled that stupid song “Yummy Yummy Yummy (I got love in my tummy).” He felt suitably absurd. He recently had a lovely dinner with the new librarian for the solid pleasure of talking about books as he used to do with Diane. Now like a feeb he was waiting for another possible bare-butt viewing of Barbara when she had her lemonade. He felt a trace of shame. Act your age, he thought, but simply enough he didn’t want to. He was an old boy on the loose again.

He called Mona in Ann Arbor, didn’t get her, and left a long message until her voice mail lost its patience and cut out. Could they really howl like monkeys? He supposed he’d find out soon enough. Mona would enjoy snooping into this case.

The librarian hadn’t excited him except for her mind. Of course she would be a far wiser seduction then Barbara. If he had been warned about Monica they were ready for his next misstep. He suspected a junior member of the police force of possibly stirring up trouble. He was known as the “Kid” because he looked very young and had been hired as liaison to the area’s young people, something which he had trained for in college. The Kid had told Sunderson that his own thirteen-year-old sister had been sexually abused. Sunderson was curious because the Kid was obsessed with sexual abuse where there didn’t seem to be any suggestion of it, much less evidence. He called a friend on the force in Saginaw from which the Kid hailed and found out there was in fact no sister. There was an early complaint against the Kid in high school from the mother of a neighbor girl who claimed that the Kid had tampered with her daughter. Sunderson’s friend remembered this though no charges had been filed. He said that the Kid weepingly denied everything and although he was cleared he entered a long depression afterward. The Kid’s father was a sergeant on the local force and not above beating the shit out of his son. Sunderson had no conclusions, only suspicions, but found ironic the Kid’s zeal on sex cases and he had to be reprimanded for bringing so many cases with a very low conviction record.

Right now Sunderson was in a race against time. His fishing gear was packed near the front door and Marion was due in less than a half hour to go steelhead fishing on the Saint Marys River over in Sault Sainte Marie. Meanwhile, he had quickly squeezed the lemons and was aching to hear the downstairs shower shut off which would mean he was closer to another view. The thing she’d needed his help with was a hundred-dollar contribution to her friend’s abortion fund. They were poor folks but her friends were raising the money so the mother could take her daughter down to Mount Pleasant in central Michigan for the procedure. Suddenly the shower went off and she was at the counter mixing her lemonade. He boldly reached out and palmed a buttock. His cell phone rang obnoxiously. He turned it off noting it was Mona in Ann Arbor whom he could call back. Barbara drank deeply and went into the living room, sitting down in a big red T-shirt she’d borrowed which came all the way down to mid-thigh. He knelt before her confidently pushing the shirt up to her waist. This was the world peace he was thinking about and he was right there when it was happening. He put his hands behind her knees and pushed them toward her chest. He put a big wet kiss on her vagina boring in with his tongue until she made a small squeak and said, “Oh my goodness” over and over. And then they heard the steps on the front porch and Marion called out for Sunderson. Marion later admitted that the sight of the girl’s bicycle in the yard slowed him down a bit. Sunderson jumped up and nearly lost his balance falling backward. She deftly turned on the clicker tuning in one of many Saturday college football games. She pulled down the shirt and tried vainly to tidy herself.

“Hello, Barbara!” Marion practically exploded. Then he turned to Sunderson. “Barbara helped out in my office as a sixth grader. Now here she is almost all grown up.”

Sunderson noted that Marion put an emphasis on “almost” then glared at him.

Barbara seemed nearly frozen in place. She smiled at Marion. “I took a shower after working in the garden. Now I’m getting dressed so I can go sailing with my friends.”

Marion was polite enough to go into the kitchen and Sunderson followed after noting a wet spot on the back of Barbara’s T-shirt. She rushed off while they stood in the kitchen drinking some of her lemonade.

“Let’s go. We’re burning up the day. I packed some pot roast sandwiches for a late lunch.” While they loaded Sunderson’s fishing gear Barbara said goodbye, throwing a lovely leg over the bicycle seat. Sunderson winced at his coitus interruptus.

In the car headed east toward the Soo Marion seemed a bit cool and critical. He had graduated from college in psychology and of course had been a teacher and principal for decades. Sunderson expected a lecture. They were barely out of Marquette on Route 28 when it began.

“Monica was one thing. Everyone found it scandalous but she was nineteen so you slid under the wire. Barbara is a totally different matter. She’s fifteen. You’re my oldest friend and I want you to exercise care so you don’t end up in jail. There’s no fishing in jail. She’s a good kid and has no business wearing nothing but your T-shirt on the sofa. I can only guess what you were up to.” Sunderson hurriedly told the story of his contribution to the abortion fund which made Barbara innocently affectionate to him.

“Oh bullshit,” Marion exploded. “All the years I’ve known you you’ve had an eye out for young stuff. If I find out there’s anything going on my next call is Barbara’s parents and you’re headed for the slammer. May I remind you they relate your syndrome to the unlived life? I know that in high school you were a wrestler and a bone-crunching linebacker. All the pretty girls like quarterbacks, running backs, and nice clean basketball players. You were left out by the pretty ones and even late in life you’re hot on their track. Stop it. Period. Pursue Diane for Christ’s sake. Or the neighbor lady. I don’t care. Just don’t let your dick lead you to jail or more likely prison.”

They checked into the Ojibway so Sunderson could watch the ships pass through the huge Soo Locks, a longtime obsession. On the river there was a hard cold rain. Sunderson fished for an hour until he was shivering and soaking wet. He caught one six-pounder, enough for a good chowder. Marion had better rain equipment so he took Sunderson back to the hotel where they ate their delicious pot roast sandwiches with pickles and beer. Then Marion left to go back fishing. Sunderson ordered a pint of whiskey from room service to avoid walking back out in the rain to a liquor store. He remembered with fondness the lovely room service at the Arizona Inn in Tucson, also the breakfast at the Carlyle where he had set the stage to blackmail the rich mother of a rock musician who was dating Mona.

Thinking of Mona’s rock ’n’ roller who was now in a French prison after being caught with two underage girls made him nervous indeed. The most loathsome criminal of all was the pedophile. Sunderson considered fifteen years the cutoff, an adult woman in most of the world but America, except Louisiana. He could always go to New Orleans on the remaining supply of blackmail money but wasn’t that admitting he was a sick cookie? He called Barbara out of impulse. She was on her bike but said she could talk. He said he was sorry they had been interrupted and she said, “Me too, I was really getting off. Of all people it was Principal Jones! I still owe you one.” Sunderson, who was in bed to get warm, got an instant hard-on which proved to him that he might be hopeless. He was desperately afraid of prison. As a detective he had made a number of visits to Jackson Prison with its five thousand inmates, and to the local high-security prison in Marquette where the prisoners complained bitterly about the cold darkness of winter. He couldn’t imagine anyplace more dismal. Out barred windows you could see stormy Lake Superior, often iced over in winter, not an attractive escape route. The solution was to fish and travel the rest of his life and avoid all young women. Stop now. Period. Maybe allow himself one more session with Barbara. But self-indulgence was always the problem — an ex-detective thinks he can get away with anything and soon he hasn’t stopped at all. He needed to get a bird dog and return to hunting grouse and woodcock. But suddenly he was pondering the view with his photo image of Barbara’s delectable crotch as he went down on her on the sofa for a few minutes. The thought was needlessly electric and he despised his sense of being out of control. It was still months away from New Year’s when an effective resolution might be made.

There had to be an escape route from this obsession. He loathed his mind’s startling capacity to raise up an image of Barbara naked below the waist. Marion’s lecture had given him a knot in his throat and his eyes were misting with frustration. He remembered the name of a mind doctor that Diane had given him. It might be time to bite the bullet and go, but would the man hold his information in confidence? It was hot info if it could send him to prison. What was it about our sexual impulses that demolished us and how did he end up with his ass in this sling? He had seen Barbara dozens of times on the block so why was he suddenly a witless ninny? Dante and Beatrice? Petrarch and Laura? A voice in him said, “Don’t flatter yourself.” A lovely girl is perched daintily on her haunches while he splices her bicycle chain and he is struck dumb, poleaxed, while looking up her legs. It was like peeing on an electric cattle fence which invariably knocked you to the ground, something city dwellers were pranked into doing while visiting their country cousins. Fistfights often followed.

He finally reached Mona. She was writing a paper about Machado, a Spanish poet she adored. Her look into Ziegler’s situation revealed a striking mess. Mona had gone back into the group and reported that while one twin had lost interest and left the group the beloved pet daughter Ziegler had mentioned lived with the teacher-master and did the cooking, an important position in the community. The three grand her father sent doubtless went for food as the master was quite a trencherman. Sunderson had also checked things out with his ex-wife Diane who he remembered had been a Zen student in college, purportedly a serious and traditional student compared with the goofies in Ann Arbor at whom Diane took serious umbrage. Sunderson knew from Diane about Mona’s many mental issues arising from college, her distant father and worthless mother, and her rock ’n’ roll ex-lover. With Diane’s encouragement Mona had become interested in Zen as a way to try to resolve some of this. Mona didn’t mind deferring to authority which was part of Zen, really more a total attitude than a religion. However, Diane was rather strict on observances of over a thousand years of tradition, stricter than her own Zen training in college from what Mona told him. There was an American tendency to try and adapt everything to our lack of customs. If Mona said she was going to sit on her zafu for a full stick of incense Diane expected the total of forty minutes. So Diane was furious on hearing that Ziegler’s daughter was having an affair with the “master.” Under no condition should a teacher have sexual relations with a student. Diane was vehement about this.

Sunderson could see that he would be regarded by the group with strong suspicion. Mona had expressed interest in joining the group so she could hang around there more, and suggested that she volunteer his services as a janitor in the church basement, fortunately pretty well soundproofed, where they met. Everything was organized around volunteer work but Americans aren’t enthused about the janitorial so it would be easy for her to get her “uncle interested in Zen” in as the group’s janitor.

The master himself was to be called “Sky Blast,” his idea, and he came from San Francisco. He appeared one day in Ann Arbor, supposedly to visit an old girlfriend, and took up wearing his traditional black robes around campus. Sky Blast also loved zoos and it was at the Detroit Zoo where he came upon his idea of howler monkeys to which we are related though not nearly so closely as to chimpanzees. The master’s contention was that we were primates who began life howling. Mona was amused by this but found the howling unbearable compared with the traditional silence of meditation. Certain sopranos in the group were absolutely shattering. The howling was considered a privilege and on specific days only a few righteous students were allowed to howl and the others had to remain silent. There was one day of total silence per week and Mona wondered if they’d become suspicious if she attended only on those days. Security was taken to the utmost because early on there was an interloper who wrote a parodic exposé and played a recording of the howling when he was interviewed on a local radio station. Practice was early every morning after Margaret Ziegler served them a Tibetan breakfast. If you wanted to be holy no one could compete with Tibetans. Mona said the food was edible if you brought your own hot sauce. This was against the rules but members did it anyway.

During Mona’s first dokusan, a private meeting with Sky Blast, he had asked her to arrange her robes so he could see up under them. The same old, same old, she thought but did so out of a sense of humor. They were interrupted by his lover Margaret, who glared at Mona’s loose robes. Mona noticed later that Margaret was still peeved when she demanded that Mona peel extra potatoes for the communal dinner. Sky Blast said that he had been mourning for Tibetan refugees and needed to see bare thighs to save his spirits. He got an eyeful as Mona rarely wore undies. After that he managed to brush up against her suggestively several times. Ziegler’s son, Michael, was obviously the lout of the group. His sister had to keep an eye on him or he would drink schnapps.

Sunderson reported in to Ziegler, limiting what he had to say, and told him of the plan to infiltrate. Ziegler was anxious and wanted him to drive down that evening but Sunderson was tired and had a plan with Barbara early the next morning. The first and last sex with her hopefully would be memorable.

Marion had returned during his phone call with Mona and chuckled incredulously when Sunderson filled him in. They had caught six fish in all and drove hastily home and made a fish chowder with potatoes, salt pork, and onions. You poached the fish first to have a stock. Diane usually served it with a pat of butter on top and then you watched it melt patiently. You rounded it out with some half-and-half and a dash of Tabasco.

They watched part of a pro football game but it was dreary and low scoring and they were drowsy so they made it an early night.

Weather permitting Barbara intended to come over early in the morning to weed and Sunderson spent a restless night brooding about Marion’s lecture and his morning plans. He wasn’t quite sure he could say to himself that sex was over for this short life. He was okay when he was still married to Diane but cutting that cord he became a nutcase. Could he deny himself beauty? Of course. Jail or prison would be particularly unpleasant for an ex-lawman.

Nevertheless, as agreed he left the back porch door unlocked for Barbara then waited all night for the click with a mixture of dread and anticipation. First he heard her pull up on her bicycle then walk softly and slowly up the stairs. She stood in his open doorway, smiled, and pulled off a sweatshirt and down with the shorts. Now she was nude. She sat gently on his bare chest and said, “This little bear went to market,” and tickled his penis with her bare hand. She leaned over and gave him a rough French kiss, straddled his cock, and put it all the way in with a gasp.

“I think I love you more than my boyfriend.”

“Don’t say that.” He held her back by her elbows thinking that this wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Marion’s words drummed in his ears. “You better pick on someone your own age.”

She rolled into a crunch. “Do me like a dog. I read that people did that.”

His resistance folded. He was on her with particular gusto, thinking that he was the happiest man on earth for the time being. Her back was radically muscular from gymnastics and she revolved herself below the waist aggressively. “Do that thing you did the first time on the sofa,” she said. He knew she meant to go down on her which he did. She had a delightful whimper but then he heard the back gate of the garden open and Barbara’s mother call out for her. She was off the bed and deep into the closet in a trice. His heart hammered and he opened the window and answered. The upshot was that she was driving down the alley and had seen Barbara’s bicycle at the back of his garden. Was she here? “No,” he yelled. “She must have walked downtown with a friend. She’s working here later.” “Tell her to call when she shows up. Okay?” Barbara’s mother continued down the alley in her blue Chevy. Barbara came out of the closet and laughed at his limp dick. “You aren’t turned on by my mother?” She blew him then while giggling. “My boyfriend wants this every day. It gets boring.” It worked and they returned to eating then dog style.

There was a very brief moment of shame, again a recall of Marion’s lecture. If it didn’t stop now when he was sixty-six when did it stop? It couldn’t continue, could it? In Blake’s terms what are the actual limits of desire? He had no philological knowledge of what constitutes it. After the prom in high school his date Missy Carling had fallen asleep drunk on a friend’s floor and he had shamefully lifted her frilly prom dress for a look. They were steady dates but other than simple kissing she wouldn’t allow a touch, and he couldn’t help thinking if he were still the star linebacker and not a lowly wrestler she’d feel differently. When swimming they would wrestle a little but the water diminished the sexuality of the act while lifting her dress was explosive, even more so than the tight swimsuit photos of Janet Leigh in Life magazine which had him chewing his fingers painfully. Once after a workout he was resting on a wrestling mat and Missy stood over his head in her scanty cheerleader outfit. He was keenly aware of her exposed body in all of its glory. As a senior she had abandoned him in favor of the star basketball player who had taken the team to the state semifinals. This made him burn with rage. He got in a fight with the guy who was unfortunately tough. The coach made them put on big, puffy sixteen-ounce gloves. The fight was declared a tie when Sunderson had hit him in the gut until he puked on the sidewalk outside the gym door. Missy watched the fight and was so disgusted she said she would never speak to him again, and she didn’t until graduation day when she gave him a French kiss and said that he had always been the best kisser. She went off in the fall to Brown University on a big scholarship and ended up marrying a rich guy which had always been her ambition as the daughter of a poor biology teacher. The wedding was in Marquette but he hadn’t been invited, he thought because he was at Michigan State. The basketball player was invited but then he went to the University of Michigan which was thought to be a step up and played star quality basketball there.

More than forty-five years later his temples still burned at the memory of lifting her prom dress. Lust didn’t seem to go away. According to Marion, the curdled lust for Missy was still haunting him. You could feel practically sick with it. He had with Barbara wearing the T-shirt and sliding it up so that the prime rump was on display. That was as tough on his system as the time he’d made love with Mona in Paris. It was right after the rock ’n’ roller left her for the young girls and Sunderson had been overwhelmed by her advances, he told himself. Diane had been angry but had eventually forgiven him because she knew Mona had used every hook and crook to seduce him and when it came to sex nearly all men were fools, him especially, which she’d learned from his slavish sexuality in their marriage. Now sexually sated with Barbara he, of course, could think of giving up sex with her.

He did however feel a remote tickle over the idea of anal sex, which he’d read about but done only once in college. According to his reading Brazilian girls considered it a birth control measure. But what if he were careless with Barbara and they ended up at the ER with a Beethoven chorus singing shame before a squad of police showed up?

He shivered and turned Barbara over on her belly. “Don’t even think about it,” he said to himself. He put the tip of his cock there.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said. “This coach over in Duluth did it there to a girl. She ended up going to a hospital that night. Think of explaining that to my parents. The coach had five kids and went to the same Catholic church as the girl’s family. My aunt goes there and told me.”

The story hit uncomfortably close to home. He asked what happened. “Nothing,” she said. “They prayed a lot over her sore butt with the priest.”

“What would your dad do?”

“Get out his deer rifle. He’s real religious. He would shoot you square in the head, that’s for sure. I might try it tomorrow with lots of lotion.”

Sunderson was back to thinking of the seven deadly sins with the help of her dad’s rifle. He wasn’t coming close to her tomorrow. He’d be on a long hike in the woods if he could pick up a true friend from the dog pound.

It was noon and they were famished when they go out of bed, him with an aching prostate gland. He made them hamburgers from frozen patties, not a preference but all he had on hand.

“Fucking makes you real hungry,” she said nonchalantly. They dozed on the sofa for fifteen minutes and then she went out and attacked her weeding. She despised the man Sunderson was working for and referred to his daughters as “rich bitches” and their brother as a “nerd” and a “dweeb,” slang he wasn’t familiar with. Later she took a shower and had a quarrelsome call with her mother concluding, “No I am not dressed properly. I’m showing Mr. Sunderson my bare ass. Old men like to look at bare asses.” She slammed the phone down. “With Mother everything is propriety. Though my wicked aunt told me bawdy stories about her when she was in high school. Evidently she fucked the football coach on a junior camping trip.”

Later that afternoon Sunderson made a trip to the grocery for some Stouffer’s mac and cheese of which he always ate two packages, and then at the bar he ran into an old friend and his family sitting in the corner with a menu for the Italian place down the street trying to figure out if they could afford dinner. This embarrassed Sunderson with his ample pension and secret money from blackmailing the rock ’n’ roller’s rich mother. He supposedly saved the kid from a sex abuse charge for which he had received fifty grand. Little did she know that the charge she paid to protect him from was just a mixture of rumors a college friend at the LAPD had told him. They had been watching the rock musician hard but didn’t have anything that would stick. And here Sunderson was chasing his tail about sex while millions were unemployed including his friend. His educated wife worked checkout at the supermarket while he was one of a legion of out of work computer programmers and a fine angler. Their son Billy had Down syndrome but their daughter Wendy was a straight-A student headed in the fall to Kalamazoo College on a big scholarship. When Billy saw Sunderson he brayed and aimed his finger around the room shouting bang-bang in honor of Sunderson’s former profession. His sister calmed him down. Sunderson lied and said he had just won two hundred bucks in the lottery and wanted some greaseball lasagna so let’s all go to dinner. He could tell that the mother didn’t believe him but everyone was suddenly happy. He had a quick double and off they went. It was a chilly evening and he had a sense of winter approaching although the day had been pleasant.

Later that evening with considerable prostate discomfort he called another fishing friend who was a doctor. He told Sunderson to stop fucking so much. Sunderson lamely replied that he didn’t know you could fuck too much. At dinner he had sat next to the attractive, flirtatious daughter and managed to get excited and sighed in despair. She was the daughter of a friend, he reminded himself. He slept poorly that night waking again and again to Barbara’s delightful odor on the bedclothes. He thought over and over of his teen desire to become a Maori warrior in New Zealand where there was also a great supply of brown trout. By morning he had decided to control his obsessions by traveling more, even to New York City again to spend a week at the Museum of Natural History with several trips to Katz’s delicatessen. When he was growing up his father would occasionally make him Jewish-style pickled tongue in a stone crock which he loved.

He decided to fly to Ann Arbor and rent a car, rather than make the laborious drive, and soak his wealthy client with the expense. He didn’t want to face the airport twice so he bought a one-way ticket and thought he’d go fishing on the way back. He arranged to meet Mona at Zingerman’s where he always had a brisket sandwich with extra hot horseradish, an inevitable gut bomb but sacrifices must be made. Mona proudly announced she had bought him a pile of used janitorial supplies at a yard sale. A man must have a professional mop. That morning Barbara had dropped by for what she called a “quickie” which his prostate scarcely needed. He suspected that her athletic abilities promoted her sexual energy. He would need a long trip to simply recover.

He checked into a small suite at the Campus Inn where he slept twenty minutes to handle his sandwich, then drove over to the church basement to unload the supplies of his new craft. There were long neat rows of zafus and zabutons, Zen sitting cushions that Sunderson thought very uncomfortable. He had sat on the one Diane owned that she kept stored in a closet and had fallen crudely off to the side which meant to him that he wasn’t built for meditation. They packed the janitor stuff in a coat closet. Sky Blast and the Ziegler girl came in the basement door with her carrying a heavy load of groceries. He wasn’t the grocery-carrying type and wore a look of seedy reverence in his black robe, the slack look of “Isn’t life wonderful” that one sees in nickel orientalists to whom the universe is a spiritual playground. Mona introduced them.

“We can afford to pay you very little.”

“I’m volunteering because of my curiosity about Zen. My ex-wife was a practioner and it seemed to do her a lot of good.”

Sky Blast looked at him with a trace of cynicism then let out with a shattering howler monkey screech that startled Sunderson witless. He was answered by Margaret in the kitchen who was equally loud.

“We are cleansing the dead air,” Sky Blast announced with pretension. Sunderson went into the kitchen to help Margaret unpack the groceries. She was a big girl with a reasonably shaped fanny. It was strictly vegetarian stuff with lots of fruit, vegetables, juice, and not a trace of the pork sausage he valued so highly. There were also big bags of a Tibetan cereal called tsampa. He would have to make his own breakfast before he came to work. Michael Ziegler the lout was making eyes at Mona, who regarded him as one does a dog turd.

“What are you doing?” Sky Blast barked.

“Helping with the groceries.”

“That’s women’s work,” he said.

Margaret served them a cup of tea at an aluminum table. Sky Blast had seemed to notice Sunderson’s glance at her butt.

“You may find my approach to zazen a bit unorthodox but I received a dispensation on the top of Mount Tamalpais last year that our age will be undergoing a resurgence of the natural world in our time. Howler monkeys are our primate predecessors. We must honor them. I am fascinated by the oneness of all living things.”

“Me too,” said Sunderson for lack of anything else to say.

“Good. Then we’ll get along. Call me Roshi Sky.”

“Fine by me, Roshi Sky.”

“See you at five tomorrow morning.”

Sunderson wasn’t enthused about getting up that early except to go fishing though he rather looked forward to howling like a monkey. People of this ilk kept trying to help you “get in touch with yourself.” He wasn’t at all sure that this was a pleasant idea though he knew in his heart that he had to put a stop to things with Barbara however late in the game it was. He vowed as punishment that he would have to go to that mind doctor if he screwed her again. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye, they used to say.

He was up before daylight and fried two good-sized sausage patties. He had read that mountain climbers were never vegetarians. Of course he had no intention of climbing mountains but he liked the solidity of the idea that pork rather than cereal could get you up Everest.

In the church basement the rows were three-quarters full of meditators and Sky Blast glowered at the late arrivals from the kitchen, finally making a mighty howl which the others joined. Sunderson started tentatively with not much more than a squeak. Sky Blast came up behind him and told him to use his lungs completely as if he were a monkey singing opera. He did so and found it oddly satisfying like yelling at his sister Berenice when he was young. As he glanced into the kitchen it occurred to him that Margaret must eat a lot of vegetables to get an ass that big. Down the row her brother Michael’s face seemed fixed permanently in a smirk. He was a heavy cross for Margaret to carry. Sunderson learned that he was a football player and allowed to eat a big steak at a restaurant every night for dinner. He was also the only man allowed to date outside the group. His father had given him a new yellow Corvette for making the team. He had a black girlfriend and would say loudly that he preferred “dark meat.”

Of all the howlers Sky Blast was the loudest, obviously playing to his strength. Mona’s voice was the most penetrating. It was high and clear and if there had been any actual animals in the area they would be frightened witless. Latecomers said that even with the soundproofing any strays or dogs being walked fled the area posthaste. When Sunderson was a child he was friends with a local Ojibwa family and once at a powwow they asked him to join in their chanting and singing. He recalled what a wonderful sensation it was to chant at drumbeats during a full moon in August. There were northern lights that evening which made it even more eerie. His friend’s father told him that the song they had sung was about summer waning in August. The next dawn he and his friend went out and caught a big pail of bluegills and perch and there was breakfast around the campfire of fried fish cooked in massive iron skillets. He had a crush on a pretty Indian girl who thoroughly ignored him except once were they were playing hide-and-seek and in the woods she kissed him impulsively.

As they continued to yodel in the church basement he noted that Michael stared at Mona with graceless lust, not that he could blame him. She was by far the prettiest girl in the group. When they finished their howling they sat in silence for a full stick of incense, forty minutes, a tip of the hat to tradition. They had a predictably awful breakfast. His legs hurt mightily from his attempt to keep balance on the zafu. The tsampa tasted like cattle feed and didn’t help his pain. His prospects with these nitwits looked glum.

On the way back to the hotel Mona and Sunderson decided to pick up brisket and horseradish sandwiches, so they took a long slow walk to Zingerman’s. He dreaded calling Ziegler. He didn’t want a phone call to ruin his meaty sandwich, the surging track of protein he desperately needed.

Back in the room Mona laid out their lunch. Even the pickle and potato salad were wondrous. Mona stripped to her undies which was discomfiting, saying she didn’t want the juice from hers to drip on her clean clothes. He got an instant hard-on despite his recent hard work with Barbara. They had been amused on the way home to see Sky Blast sneaking out the back door of a hamburger joint with a package and cramming a big bite right there in the alley. Sky Blast hadn’t seen them and Sunderson was not without sympathy for the sneaky vegetarian.

He had a small whiskey for courage before he dialed Ziegler. He reminded himself that the man was a hothead but he himself would quit before he took any shit or abuse. The conversation started poorly with Sunderson admitting that Ziegler’s daughter was “living in sin” with Sky Blast. Ziegler went off like a roaring rocket saying abruptly, “My poor baby.” Sunderson was somewhat mystified. How many friends even when he was active as a detective would say they would kill anyone who fooled with their daughter? Sons were home free and if they were seducers the father would brag, “My son gets more ass than a toilet seat.” A mystery, all of it. They wanted a daughter to stay “daddy’s little girl,” though frequently they ignored her. Sunderson’s only firsthand experience of father-daughter relationships, of course, was Mona, so perhaps it was better not to think about it. He noticed both Michael and Margaret’s sister had told Ziegler nothing, obviously wanting their dad to stay out of their lives.

He had seen Sky Blast and Michael practicing wrestling holds out in the lobby. They were both big men, well over six feet and quite obviously muscular. It turned out they had been high school and college wrestlers. Michael was thicker and a bit stronger but Sky Blast was deft and extremely fast. Sunderson bet in an all-out fight Sky Blast’s speed could win if he could avoid Michael getting him in a choke hold which was the finish of any fight. Sunderson’s father had taught him early in high school that since he wasn’t a fast puncher he would be better off learning a good gut punch, knowledge he made use of against the basketball player. This was because if you knocked out an opponent’s wind he couldn’t continue. It was such a ghastly feeling that he was immediately a wounded puppy. The current wrestle seemed anti-Zen to him but boys would be boys he supposed.

Sunderson left Ann Arbor by car early the next morning telling Mona to tell Sky Blast that his mother was mortally ill. She said she would sweep up and mop the mud tracked from the churchyard. He called Ziegler from Clare and told him he would meet him for drinks in Trenary at five o’clock. That was fine Ziegler said because they were unlikely to see anyone they knew in Trenary.

Sunderson had a case of “lover’s nuts,” scrotal discomfort caused by his great moral victory before he left. He had been careful not to drink too much at dinner because he knew he might lose control. He suspected that Mona would try to seduce him. She did. She slept on the couch which opened into a bed and it took her quite a while to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to close the deal. She was bouncing naked on the bed and tried to sit on his hard-on. He rolled off the bed, quickly dressed, and went down to the front desk for another room giving the concierge strict instructions not to tell her where he was. He had a double whiskey out of a pint in his luggage which didn’t help. He watched an old Vincent Price movie where a killer was sabotaging parachuters’ chutes.

They had a hurried breakfast in her room the next morning with Mona only in her undies. She sprawled obscenely with her bagel but was also disconsolate.

“Mona, I’m like your father. It’s out of the question.”

“I don’t need a father. I got a letter from my real father this week. He wants me to visit him in Los Angeles. My mother has remarried and doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Sunderson sat there with an English muffin and an indelicate hard-on, quarreling with his own mind. He frankly felt cheap but if one more session got to Diane everything would be over with her. He suddenly ran from the room, took the elevator, and was out in the parking lot in a trice. He had forgotten his suitcase but Mona could send it. He hoped Mona’s father wouldn’t break her heart again.

He made the bar in Trenary in six tiresome hours and had a couple of doubles as he waited for Ziegler half an hour.

Ziegler’s tantrum was immediate. He had talked to his son who had obviously finally spilled the beans about what was going on in Ann Arbor. He knew it was all reprehensible in his father’s terms and had wanted to keep his sister’s secrets, but his wrangling with Sky Blast had given him a taste for revenge. The bartender came out to the bar porch to see what the yelling was about so Sunderson gestured Ziegler down the street. In his braying voice Ziegler offered Sunderson a $5,000 bonus if he would retrieve his daughter from Ann Arbor.

“Can’t do it. She’s over eighteen and that would be the serious felony of kidnap.”

“But she’s my fucking daughter,” Ziegler wailed. “I can’t give her up to a fucking California hippie. She was dating a quarterback a few months ago.”

Sunderson said nothing, reflecting on how many parents think that they virtually own their children. The children are never allowed to become independent beings.

Ziegler bellowed, “You chickenshit. You’re fired. I’ll fucking get her myself.” Ziegler ran for his car and swerved off in the other direction from home.

Well, it made the next morning’s Detroit Free Press in a big way. Pure mayhem. Sunderson caught up with it over breakfast at a local eatery, having returned to an empty pantry. Evidently Ziegler, the ex — University of Michigan football star, was the paper implied a very rough customer. According to Ziegler’s daughter Margaret her father and brother came into their house and immediately attacked “Mr. Sky Blast, a Zen teacher from California. Sources revealed that Sky Blast’s students howl like the primate howler monkeys during meditation which is unique to their sect. Mr. Sky Blast is also a trained martial arts champion specializing in judo. He defended himself capably from the attack and now all three are in the hospital. Margaret Ziegler reported that her brother hit Sky Blast in the face with a baseball bat. Ms. Ziegler called the police who quelled the fight with difficulty. Mr. Ziegler Senior is being charged with assault and resisting arrest in addition to other charges, including significant property damage to the apartment.”

Sunderson’s disgust was immediate and wholehearted. He didn’t feel culpable but was ashamed that he had had anything to do with these people. He called the chief of police for Ann Arbor and gave a telephone statement to the effect that he had worked for Ziegler in his efforts to retrieve his daughter but had been recently fired after refusing to simply kidnap her. “Wise choice,” the chief said. Sunderson had known him from long ago but had never liked him because of the man’s essentially fascist attitudes about police work. The chief told Sunderson he might have to come back to Ann Arbor as the case developed.

Sunderson noticed a waitress who had a startling resemblance to Mona. He couldn’t help staring, which started a long session of near nausea that lasted several hours. He knew he had to rid himself of his aimlessness and criminal activity, including Barbara. He called and asked her to meet him on his back porch in an hour. He chafed against the self-denial but he had to stop this sexual nonsense. He would have to become a hermit fisherman. Even in winter he could afford to go anywhere to fish. Both coasts of Mexico beckoned.

She arrived while he was having a stiff drink. She quickly made herself some lemonade on this crisp autumn day when the maples were sparkling in their multicolored beauty.

“It’s over,” he said to her.

“I was afraid you would say that. Just when I was really enjoying it.”

“You can resume with someone your own age or a college boy.”

“But I love you,” she pouted.

“Don’t say that. My friend the prosecutor said he had been tipped off. The paperboy saw us together in the living room and told his parents. They reported it. If I were charged I could get ten years for sexual abuse of a minor. I don’t have that many years left and I can’t bear the idea of spending them in prison. They’d love to convict an ex-detective.” He felt a bit desperate lying to her but somehow believed it would let her down easier than a simple rejection.

“We could run away together.”

“I’ve thought of it but there’s no safe place.”

As luck would have it Barbara’s parents, Bruce and Ellen, came driving down the alley in their boring beige Camry. Barbara waved and pulled the hem of her skirt down. She had worn an especially short one for his delectation. Bruce and Ellen came through the back garden gate. Barbara had stacked all of the autumn garden detritus near the gate for the garbage truck. Bruce looked coolly at the weeded garden.

“Nice job. You should do this at home.”

Sunderson got up to shake hands and offered a drink. Bruce was small and had a slightly nasty edge known as the small man’s syndrome.

“No thanks. I only drink after dark except in summer when the dark comes so late up here.”

“What are you drinking dear? I hope it’s not wine.”

“Lemonade,” Barbara said looking in her glass.

“Offer your mother some, dear,” Sunderson said. It was evident that Barbara wasn’t going to make a move to do so unless he said something.

They chatted like neighbors for a few minutes and then Bruce and Ellen were off for the store. When they left Barbara burst into tears again then went through the house to catch the last of the autumn sun on the front porch.

“I don’t see how you can leave me high and dry when I love you.” She started sobbing as he looked at her wonderful legs thinking that they should be around his neck. He had poured a huge drink when they walked through the house hoping it would make him calm and meditative. No such luck. He felt a flood of warm tears. The local paper had called repeatedly about the Ann Arbor violence. He hadn’t answered.

Suddenly she was running down the street toward home still sobbing. He felt more interior tears then saw her dreaded parents coming down the street in their Camry back from the short grocery trip. He waved, they waved. He felt light-headed from his first moral choice in recent memory though part of his motive was not to be in prison for the opening of trout season next spring. There was a virtual flash in his mind of Barbara’s gorgeous bare butt but he was undeterred. He already felt and was trying to subdue his regret. Good people don’t have it easy, he reflected, though he wasn’t really a good person.

It was a scant fifteen minutes before Barbara’s mother was doing a military march down the street toward him. He was happy he had refreshed his drink.

“My daughter is sobbing. I think it’s about you. Did you fire her?”

“No I didn’t fire her. She’s just starting to trim the hedges. She was unhappy this morning about something.”

“Well she seems to be sobbing about you. If her father finds out you’re up to something with her you’ll go straight to prison.”

She turned around and marched up the street.

Sunderson felt sweat oozing from every pore though the air was cool. He went inside and refreshed his drink yet again. He was tempted to cut and run for his trout cabin, but it was only two days from deer season when the orange army would invade the north. He called Marion anyway. They usually opened the season without much interest at his cabin. But as the phone rang with no answer he remembered that Marion was in Hawaii with his wife for a big indigenous conference. Everyone in the Midwest except Sunderson wanted to go to Hawaii, though it interested him slightly more thinking about it having its own native population. There was the idea that he should move to a remote place out of harm’s way. Early in his detective career he would have been happy indeed to bust someone for his current behavior. It would likely bring a ten-year sentence.

Now his sweat turned cold and even more ample. He went in, poured yet another drink, and then pushed it aside and gathered his gear for a cold trip to the cabin. There were snow flurries already up there though the weather report hadn’t predicted anything dire. Winter was coming on so quickly. He packed his rifle and shells in order to at least pretend he was deer hunting. He had long ago lost his taste for it so cherished when he was a teenager and they got the first few days of deer season off school. He prized the memory of shooting a big buck near town when he was sixteen. It dressed out at two hundred pounds and those were hard times. His dad had shot a little spikehorn but Sunderson proudly delivered a real hunk of meat for the family. Like many northern folks they all loved venison and his mother regularly made a stew out of the lesser bits with a big lard crust on top he adored that soaked up the gravy. There was also a nice corn relish a cousin sent up from Indiana. It was virtually impossible to grow sweet corn in Munising or Grand Marais.

He went to bed early very drunk and woke up for the trip very hungover. He couldn’t make it past a single piece of toast. On the way out of town he would pick up a few steaks and a dozen pasties. While he was packing the car Barbara rode past on her bicycle on the way to school, the tenth grade he reminded himself with self-loathing.

“I got time for a quickie if you like,” she said, getting off her bike and revealing her winsome crotch.

“I’m too hungover,” he said feeling his bilge rising. She ignored this, walked into his house, and leaned over the kitchen table lifting her skirt and dropping her panties to the ankles. He couldn’t resist and then off she went whistling her way to school. He was suddenly exhausted and sat on the sofa reading the morning Detroit Free Press that had been delivered by the mouthy paperboy.

He was pleased to read in a longish article that the former football hero Ziegler was being charged with both assault and illegal entry. He paid fines to get out of the rest but his daughter Margaret, the legal tenant, had refused to open the door, or so she testified, saying that Ziegler and her brother saw Sky Blast standing behind her and broke down the front door. Ziegler threw the first punches, a critical matter in charging him, and Michael grazed him in the head with a bat, but Sky Blast was in fine shape with some martial arts training. Margaret knocked her brother over the head with a rolling pin which turned the tide as he had Sky Blast in a sometimes fatal choke hold from behind. Margaret had called the police and when they arrived Sky Blast was busy throwing both father and son off the front porch. All were arrested. Ziegler was a bloody mess from face punches and Michael had a minor skull fracture for which he would never forgive his sister. Sky Blast was put in a cast for a broken arm and knuckles but had clearly defended himself well against the two big bullies.

The real news was that a small town cop in the Bay Area of San Francisco had been surfing the Net and recognized Sky Blast’s photo as that of a man known locally as Roshi Simmons who had an open arrest warrant for embezzling a large amount of money from a Bay Area Buddhist organization. Extradition orders were being filed. So Sky Blast had feet of clay, Sunderson thought, a little embarrassed by his amusement. Ziegler would be happy about that no matter how badly he and his pride were injured.

Sunderson felt mildly suicidal, a new emotion for him as the least self-judgmental person imaginable. He had not been able to resist Barbara once, even looking at ten in the hoosegow. He decided to put off his departure one more day, wondering at the absurd mystery of love and lust and his own questionable behavior in the face of them. Helpless in the world, he thought. None of the pretty girls were available to him in high school so maybe he was living the unlived life. He knew even as he thought it that it was a lie. He’d never unlived life. Without Diane divorcing him none of this could have happened, starting with Mona. But his dad used to say, “No excuses” and there really weren’t any in this case. You walk away from something wrong in an ideal world. He hadn’t done so.

He was sure he had loved Diane during their more than twenty-five years of marriage. He had fucked up the whole thing with drinking and talking ad nauseam about the grim aspects of his work as a detective for the state police, the many wife and child beatings and sexually abused children. She simply couldn’t bear that dose of reality and it was sadistic of him to unburden himself because he couldn’t bear it either. The culture said it was very wrong to make love to his fifteen-year-old gardener. Making love to the married neighbor lady was not recommended either but was at least legal.

He awoke at 7:00 a.m. to an unpleasant call from Ziegler who demanded he drive to Ann Arbor and pick up Margaret.

“Have you forgotten you fired me?” Sunderson replied.

“You’re hired again. Go get her pronto.”

“Fuck you big shot.” Sunderson hung up on him.

The second call, to his cell, was far worse. It was his quasi-friend the prosecutor. He explained in painful detail that Barbara’s parents had taken her to a female shrink, new in town, and she had told her everything about her affair with Sunderson.

“She’s lying,” Sunderson said impulsively.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” the prosecutor said. “You got your ass in a sling. Come in to see me this morning.” He knew the prosecutor was bending the rules in that he hadn’t yet been arrested.

“I can’t. I’m at my cabin deer hunting.”

“I’ll give you until Friday. That’s four days. Be here. I don’t want to have to get a warrant and have you picked up.”

“Thank you,” Sunderson said. He hung up, then went into the toilet and puked up breakfast. Except for drinking, he hadn’t vomited since a bad case of Asian flu twenty years before. This was a special occasion.

He drove off for the cabin feeling as if he weighed nothing in the front seat of the car. He pulled off in an empty restaurant parking lot on the way west of town and called the bartender near the cabin, who looked after the place for him, to warn of his arrival. His mind was naturally jumbled and totally out of focus. He thought of Brazil but was not sure he was ready for such a foreign lifestyle. His other option was Nogales, Mexico, right across the border which he knew only required a driver’s license though they were becoming stricter. But then again there was no real fishing around Nogales except pond catfish. Brazil would be the safest place as they wouldn’t extradite him but whoever heard of jungle trout. The poignant fear was that if he went to prison at sixty-six years of age he likely wouldn’t get out until age seventy-six and by then he’d probably be too weak to fish and wade swift rivers. This put both stomach and brain in an ugly turmoil. What did he have in mind whazzing mere girls? Simple dumb lust whatever that was. He couldn’t pin it down. It was like a stomachache you never get rid of from age twelve to seventy-plus possibly.

There was a dusting of powder snow on the long two track from the main road back to the cabin. He wasn’t worried if it really came down, as they had instructions at the tavern to come tow him out if necessary. He had fenced about five acres around the cabin with barbed wire and watered the ground well from a pump next to the river. Despite the fence there were deer prints everywhere and evidence they’d dug down to green grass. It was beautiful to watch deer jump fences. They rarely failed and would right themselves with a somersault if their back legs didn’t quite make it.

The cabin was warm and cozy with a small fire in the fireplace started by the bartender and a nice stack of dry wood. He noticed that the television was missing, either thieved or borrowed, but he wasn’t concerned. Occasionally a local hermit, or so he thought, would break in and heat up a can of beans but would clean up after himself.

He poured a modest drink and sat in an easy chair staring at his beloved river. He had vowed to drink moderately in order to get up early and hunt if he so chose. Despite his happiness over where he was he could not lessen the knot in his stomach over fear of prison and missing ten years of trout fishing. It was unacceptable in his last years but what were the options? Facing the music, they called it. He would also miss the spring bird chatter he prized. If Barbara had told the counselor everything the woman was obliged to go to the prosecutor with this crime. The sex had certainly been consensual but that was irrelevant given her age. He was plainly and fatally cornered. He didn’t much care about the public shame though he was relieved that at least his mother was dead and wouldn’t endure the humiliation.

He grieved over the fact that Diane would have to see how low he had stooped. Also his only real friend Marion who had warned him to “grow up” and “pick on women his own age.”

The bartender, Eddie, came out with the television saying his own was on the blink and his kids howled over missing it. Sunderson said that he only needed it for two more days and then Eddie could have it. Eddie was delighted and Sunderson added that he was going to buy himself a small television that he had to squint at to discourage watching so much news. This was beyond Eddie’s comprehension but his thanks were profuse. Eddie said he rarely got more than a quarter tip at the bar.

Sunderson fried up a good rare rib steak with a glass of mediocre red that hadn’t survived very well after six weeks in the refrigerator though he judged it drinkable if barely. He stoked up the fireplace with two good-sized maple logs knowing he’d be up by 4:00 a.m. to add wood.

He had a horrid and exhausting night with only intermittent dozing. He remembered his youth when it was impossible to sleep the night before deer opening. That wasn’t it this time. It was the prospective prison sentence, if not ten then at least seven years. He kept waking from vivid dreams of trying to fly-cast in the bone dry Jackson prison yard. His stomach knotted and he got up several times for a shot of whiskey. He thought that most people sent to prison had nothing to do except commit more crimes. He had to think he was different, but maybe that was just false hope. How could the law consign his final years to prison when he needed trout fishing to live? The local judge was a hanging judge in sex cases, a devout Baptist who thought sexuality was verminous. He could expect no mercy from that quarter. Diane might offer to help pay for a lawyer, but he viewed it as a waste of her money. Deep in the night watching the fireplace flicker he knew very well he was doomed. An open-and-shut case. Goodbye river. Maybe he would die on a prison cot as if it mattered. They had a special section for felonious lawmen but what did that matter? It saved you from being murdered by other inmates when you probably no longer much cared.

He gave up trying to sleep at 5:00 a.m. It was hopeless now that he had seen his future totally disappear. He got up, stirred the fire into a warm blaze. He was taking part in the ancient but senseless art of deer hunting. On opening day you got up and breakfasted very early and then sat around a couple of hours talking and waiting for daylight. He could remember dozing at the table while his father and friends talked relentlessly about the hunts of the past.

Sunderson made a pan of fried spuds, a pan of sausage, and four scrambled eggs wishing he had a dog to share the bounty. In the first pale light he saw a large buck near the edge of the fence and the river. He could have tilted a window open and shot it but he felt pretty good and didn’t want to start the day with a cheap move. That could come later if necessary. He ate most of his breakfast and left the rest out for visiting coyotes along with last night’s steak bone.

He heard shots from not that far north on the river. He could see clearly now because the light was growing stronger. A small button buck, so called because its horns were mere nubbins and had not yet grown into a spike horn, failed to clear the fence, three strands of barbed wire where it was loose near the cabin. The button buck failed the jump and became horribly entangled in the barbed wire. Sunderson cussed and took his combination pliers and wire cutters out with him in his flimsy summer robe. According to the thermometer it was near zero and his feet were cold. The deer was a mere boy but lashed out at him furiously with its sharp hooves so that he couldn’t get close enough to cut it out of the entanglement. It was hopeless indeed and the little deer was cutting itself witlessly on the sharp barbs. Sunderson cursed and vowed to cut down the meaningless fence that day. Why give a fuck about his yard at the cabin when he didn’t care at home? The deer got more entangled and Sunderson went inside and got his rifle, the only possible solution. He shot the boy in the heart but hated it to be the deer’s last memory of earth. He spontaneously turned the rifle barrel on himself, feeling the coldness against his forehead. He moved the barrel upward a ways because he didn’t want to make a mess but not so far upward it would only be a grazing shot. He pulled the trigger and fell beside the dead deer. In his mind he was fishing a river and his lovely ex-wife was sitting on the bank with their picnic basket reading a book as usual.