They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

They Don’t Play Stickball in Milwaukee

The airport at Riversborough was the stuff of sketch comedy. Though situated just south of the Canadian border, it wasn’t exactly a major hub. It had one runway, a wind sock, and a terminal building the size of a Photomat. None of this, however, prevented the port authority from shamelessly proclaiming: “Welcome to Riversborough International Airport-The best little gateway this side of the border.” I would have hated to see the worst little gateway.

Snow and liberal arts were Riversborough’s major commodities. As I drove my rental into town, I read several bill-boards for the area ski resorts. They all, apparently, liked the copywriter for the local port authority. Their ads were equally shameless and catagorically featured the words best and little. I wasn’t great at Scrabble, but I bet I could have kicked that copywriter’s ass.

When I checked in with the local police, they gave me the same song and dance Fazio had laid on me, only in a more polite, northern New York kind of way. Zak would turn up. They were sure of it. None of them had attended the college, but they knew it was extremely competitive. And when one cop told me that Riversborough was the best little liberal arts college town in the east, I asked him if he had any relatives in advertising.

The campus was postcard pretty. The buildings were all red brick and white clapboards bordering a central quadrangle. The only bit of ostentation was the gold dome atop the library clock tower. There was no visible activity on campus and a visitor might suspect school was still in recess. But like many schools situated in snow belts, underground tunnels connected all the buildings.

I parked in the visitors’ lot and made my way around to the dorms. Though not quite as quaint as the main body of the campus, their design features were consistent with the rest of the school’s architecture. When I walked up to Zak’s door there was already someone waiting. Her nature was a mystery to me as she rested her head on her knees and hugged her blue-jeaned legs.

“How ya doing?”

She was startled. “God, you sound like Zak.”

“People say that.”

After inspecting my face, she said: “You look like him too.”

“People say he looks like me. I’m his Uncle-”

“-Dylan.” She popped up and shook my hand. “Way cool. Zak talks about you all the time. You’re the cop turned writer.”

“Something like that.” I was happy to hear her refer to Zak in the present tense. “And you are?”

“Oh, sorry. Kira, Kira Wantanabe.” She bowed slightly.

Kira Wantanabe made my heart pound. I couldn’t imagine a man whose heart wouldn’t pound at the sight of her. I let go of her hand, afraid she might feel my palm begin to moisten. We just stood there for a second, smiling awk-wardly at one another.

“Do you know where Zak is?” I finally got to the point.

“I wish I did. Like I told the cops and those other men, he just split a few days before break and I haven’t seen him since. I come up here at this time every day to see if he’s back.” She frowned.

“Are you two. .I mean. . ” Jesus, I sounded like a jerk.

“No, Uncle Dylan,” Kira smiled coyly, “we are not. Last year we were together once. We are happier as friends.” She checked her watch. “I have class.”

“Can we talk later, please?”

“Yes, I would like to speak to you. Meet me in front of the library at 7:00. Great.” She bowed again, ever so slightly.

I watched her move in silence down the hall.

I opened the door to Zak’s room with a key Jeffrey had provided. One of the advantages, some might say disadvantages, of Riversborough was that students were not required to double up. Zak had chosen to live alone. It was probably a mistake and it was probably my fault. In our talks, I used to prattle on about how living for years by myself was the best thing I had ever done. It teaches you about confronting loneliness. It teaches you about responsibility. You learn the downside of freedom. It never occured to me that he would listen. I guess I forgot to mention that I waited until after college to start down my solitary path.

When I stepped inside I noticed that Zak’s Riversborough room had the same nouveau tornado look as his room at home. Someone was searching very hard for something he was convinced my nephew possessed. And whatever this guy lacked in the way of delicacy, he more than compensated for with raw determination. I put a call in to the best little police department this side of the border.

The music remained the same, but there were variations on the lyrics. The Riversborough cops were still sure that nothing was wrong with Zak. They were sure another student had noticed Zak gone and took advantage of the situation.

MacClough wasn’t too terribly surprised by the news. He said he would have been more shocked if Zak’s dorm room had been left untouched. He made me write down some questions for Kira Wantanbe. I asked what was going on on his end. He said he was reinterviewing as many of the Castle-on-Hudson friends as he could, but that all it had gotten him so far was a couple of cups of herbal tea and several dirty looks. He had one or two more friends to check out before calling it a night. He was staying up at Jeffrey’s place. Fazio had located a safe-deposit box key at Caliparri’s house, but couldn’t be at all sure it had anything to do with Zak’s disappearance or Caliparri’s murder. Fazio was going to track down the bank and get a subpoena.

“Wait a second,” I said. “What did you and Fazio do, kiss and make up or something? How do you know so much about what he’s doing?”

“Sergeant Hurley’s been helpful.”

“How did you get to her?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “She came to me.”

“That old MacClough charm strikes again.”

“It’s not me she’s interested in, Klein. Can I help it if she’s got no taste in men?”

“Fuck you very much. Later.”

“After noon. Maybe I’ll have something.”

It had begun to snow as I made my way across campus. Once again, Kira Wantanabe was waiting. She didn’t notice me right away, so I stood in the shadows watching the white flakes landing on her lush black hair that fell well below the shoulders of her coat. She was slender as a blade of grass and not much taller than five feet, but she stood strong against the wind. The sharp lines of her calf muscles showed themselves through her thick wool leggings. Under the light, the skin of her triangular face was milky and translucent all at once like the outer layer of a pearl.

When I stepped out of the shadows, we shook hands nervously and for too long. She smiled broadly and then, embarrassed by what it might have said to me, she made it disappear.

“Come on,” she said and led me off campus.

We did not talk. I was glad for that. I felt tongue-tied and awkward and seventeen all over again. I could smell her hair: jasmine blooming in the snow. It was odd that this girl should make me feel alive. It had been a while. My internal voice kept reminding me about Zak and my father and Detective Caliparri, but after several hundred yards all I could hear was our footsteps.

The coffeehouse was downstairs, dark, and smelled like Fazio’s office. There was graffiti and drip paintings on the walls. Some clown in a beret was playing the bongos, snapping his fingers, reciting “Beat lite” poetry. It wasn’t half bad but I was willing to bet he knew the lyrics to Pearl Jam songs far better than he knew Mexico City Blues or Howl. It was kind of fun, but facade. It was a fashion for the college kids to try on and discard like miniskirts or love beads. Next year it would be a disco.

I ordered an Irish coffee. Kira ordered tea. When the waitress left our drinks, Kira pulled something out from her bag and laid it on the table near the candle.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she hid her face, “but could you sign this for me?”

It was a dog-eared copy of my last book-the one I couldn’t sell as a screenplay-They Don’t Play Stickball In Milwaukee. Too hard-boiled for the 90s, the critics said. Too hard-boiled, my ass.

When I hesitated, she panicked a bit. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Please-”

“Don’t be silly,” I said and took her pen.

She read the inscription: “‘Dear Kira, Skin of pearls. Jasmine blooming in the snow.’ It’s beautiful. I don’t understand it, but it’s beautiful.”

“Maybe sometime you will understand.”

She leaned across the table and kissed me on the cheek. “I like the way your beard feels.”

“The kiss didn’t feel too shabby.”

She put the book back in her bag. We ordered more drinks. She had an Irish coffee this time. The waitress carded her. Good thing Kira carried the requisite fake ID. It had been several decades since I’d had a drink with a coed below drinking age. Her attentiveness, enthusiasm, not to mention her physical beauty, all appealed to my vanity. And at forty, my vanity had grown small, weak.

I asked her MacClough’s questions to no avail. She knew more about Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance than Zak’s. Johnny and I had only been at it for two days, but it was getting to the point where a dead end might’ve seemed encouraging. Kira was good about not asking too many questions I could not or would not answer. She sensed, I guess, my unwillingness to go in that direction.

“I’m an English Literature major, you know.” She was quick to change subjects. “I love writing, but I can’t write. Too much loneliness. Too much looking inside.”

“You know a lot about loneliness, do you?”

“Yes.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “So, what’s it like to be a published author?”

“The fantasy’s a lot better than the reality. Mainly, getting published helps you get in touch with your own obscurity.” She frowned. That wasn’t the answer she wanted to hear. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m out of sorts and lonely. Lonely is okay when I’m home at my desk writing. Here. .”

“I understand.” Kira put her face very close to mine. “Where are you staying?”

“The Old Watermill Inn. Why?”

“Because, Uncle Dylan, there is nothing obscure about you and I want to chase our demons together tonight.”

I had no argument to make that would have convinced either one of us she was wrong.