Twin Cities Noir

The Tempest

All day long a Canadian cold front had been sweeping south along the lake, bringing with it the first real storm of the winter season. By the time the sun went down the temperature was dropping at a rate of one degree a minute. Snow flurries raced by sideways. Droplets of lake water shot by like bullets. Waves thirty feet high crashed ashore, driven by winds up to fifty miles per hour. These ungodly crests hit the Duluth Ship Canal with a force so potent, so ferocious, that the earth shook beneath the concrete.

The three high school boys standing at the foot of the canal that hellish night had no way of knowing the November gale was about to become another enchanting piece of North Shore lore, a haunting story that would be embellished and embossed and then served over beers at waterfront bars for years to come. The boys themselves had polished off a six-pack on their way down to the ship canal. Sensing the storm, they had come to the lake to play the game. But now, facing waves as tall as buildings, they were a lot less enthusiastic than when they had started down the steep hill.

“Have you ever seen them like this?”

“Never. My dad said in the old days they got this big, but I never believed him.”

“That is one angry lake.”

“You guys talk like it’s some kind of avenging spirit.”

“It is.”

“Bullshit… it’s just friggin’ water.”

It was Pudge Abercrombie who muttered the bold remark. Pudge topped out at 5'7" in a pair of football spikes, and his weight often rolled past 170 pounds. He was a dark-haired, curly-haired, relatively handsome kid with something of a bulldog visage, which at an early age had earned him the nickname Pudge. And though he may have appeared short and pudgy, he was a good athlete. One of those bowling-ball type of runners. Built low to the ground. Hard to tackle, with good speed. Whether on a football field or a hockey rink, his stubby little legs had carried him fast and far. On the stormy night at the end of football season, those angry little legs of his had led him and his pals Jack Start and Tommy Robek down to the waterfront.

Along the canal where the giant ore ships came in, there was a long, wide walkway that speared its way into Lake Superior. The walkway was about the length of a football field. It ended at a lighthouse. On sunny summer days, crowds of people would line this walkway to watch the ocean-going vessels sail beneath the famous Aerial Lift Bridge and into Duluth Harbor. But at nighttime, the ship canal was a no-man’s land. Shabby and neglected. Poor lighting. Once in a while, the Harbor Patrol would cruise Canal Park looking for prostitutes and drunken sailors, but for the most part the area was forgotten about until the sun came up.

The game the boys had come to play was as stupid as it was daring, and more than once in Duluth’s long history the dares had proven deadly. The object of the game was simple: Sprint out the long walkway after a retreating wave, leap up the wide steps, tag the lighthouse, and then race back to shore before the next monster wave could wash over you. The concrete was wet, so the footing was treacherous. Debris washed over the walk. The strong northerly wind was right in your face. Worst of all, year round Lake Superior had only one temperature. Freezing. Paralysis could occur in seconds. Hypothermia took only minutes. If you timed it right, and you could run really fast, you could get back to the safety of the lift bridge without ever getting wet. But if your luck ran out—

These storms with the killer waves were at their deadliest in the early weeks of November. “My dad said, never challenge the lake.”

Pudge Abercrombie smiled at his lifelong friend, the revolving beam from the lighthouse sweeping over his snow-soaked face. “But that’s what makes the game so much fun, Jack. There is the real chance we could be killed.”

Jack Start shook his head. “How many beers did you have?”

“Just two.”

“Was she worth two?”

“You tell me.”

Standing and shivering alongside Pudge Abercrombie and Jack Start that fateful night was Tommy Robek. Where Pudge and Jack had been the halfback and the quarterback, respectively, Tommy Robek didn’t play sports. He was just the skinny kid from the neighborhood. The three boys had run together all their lives.

A malicious grin broke over Pudge’s round red face. “Let’s all go together. I mean, same time. One big wave.”

Jack Start glanced out at a lake gone crazy. Glanced over at his friend. He shrugged his wide, athletic shoulders and smiled. Then he looked into the storm and quoted a line from one of their favorite movies, Little Big Man. “It is a good day to die.”

They waited for a real live one, gambling that the wave that followed it, the wave that would be chasing them back to shore, would be the smaller of the two. They didn’t have to wait long. A big black monster came crashing over the lighthouse like an invading army. Tons of freezing water splashed over the canal walls and raced up the walkway with a speed and rage the boys had never before seen. The angry lake water reached all the way to the tips of their toes. Washed over their ankles. Then suddenly the wave began its fast retreat. The two other boys echoed their quarterback’s sentiments. “It is a good day to die.” And the three boys were off and running.

They ran after the wave as fast as their young legs would carry them. Out onto the canal they ran. Out into the great lake. They hurled over the storm-strewn debris and struggled to keep their balance on the slippery concrete. They were screaming. They were laughing. They were so filled with adrenalin, youth, and beer, that all of the reasoning in the world could not have stopped them from challenging the lake. They were just seventeen, they were incredibly healthy, and their whole adult lives lay before them. And so what if they got a little wet.

Pudge Abercrombie reached the lighthouse steps first. Jack Start was right on his tail. The skinny kid brought up the rear. Pudge and Jack slapped the lighthouse wall, turned, and leapt back down the steps. That’s when Jack Start slipped and fell. Pudge put on the brakes, barely keeping his balance. He turned and helped his friend to his feet. Now Tommy Robek tagged the lighthouse, jumped down the steps, and crashed into them. All three of them went rolling through the icy slosh. Their laughter was almost hysterical. They were having a real time of it because they knew it was going to be close. So now they were up and running. Running through the wind-driven sleet and snow. The Aerial Lift Bridge bathed in silver-blue spotlights looked like a giant goalpost, and they were about three-quarters home when the enraged lake caught up with them. It slapped them down onto the concrete and then buried them in freezing water.

The boys disappeared in an instant. All that could be seen was a ghostly wall of water washing down the canal. The giant ray of light from the lighthouse revealed nothing. Then, almost miraculously, all three boys toppled out of the storm, now separated by yards. They lay flat on their faces as the tail of the wave swept over them. When they lifted their heads, looks of pure fright graced their faces. The monster wave had stopped in mid-stream and now it began its determined return to the sea. The quarterback curled into a ball and steadied himself for the onslaught. Tommy Robek dove for a lamppost. He hugged it with all of his might. Pudge Abercrombie raced for another lamppost across the way, but he didn’t make it. He went toppling down the walkway with the outbound water, somersaulting toward the lighthouse. When the wave was in full retreat, Jack and Tommy staggered down the walkway after him and retrieved their buddy Pudge just before he could be swept into the night. Now the three boys locked arms, the famous flying wedge, and they stumbled along the walkway as fast as their heavily sodden legs would carry them, trying to beat the next oncoming wave. At last, with only seconds to spare, they collapsed on their backs before the lift bridge. They were shivering. Coughing and swearing. Savage lake water swept under their heels.

After catching their collective breath, it was Jack Start who spoke first. “Well, that was the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever done.” He spit lake water from his lungs.

Pudge Abercrombie lay on his back staring up at a heaven teeming with rage. He was laughing, but it was a cold and bitter laugh. “Goddamn, that was the best.” He fished a soggy pack of Marlboros from his jacket pocket and stuck a wet one between his lips. “In our entire lives we’ll never again see waves like this.”

So now, beneath the silvery-blue lights of the lift bridge, in the swampy black water left by Lake Superior, lay the three boys. They stared out at the long canal. They were wet and freezing. Beaten and exhausted. They had a buzz on from the beers. But they had challenged the great lake, and they had won.

It was the pugnacious Pudge Abercrombie whose voice finally cut through the icy storm. “I want to do it again.”

Jack Start turned to him. The wind was in his face. “You’re crazy.”

“No, seriously. I want to go again. I feel unbeatable tonight.”

“I wish I had felt unbeatable last night.”

“I’m not thinking about that,” Pudge yelled.

Jack Start had to scream to be heard over the storm. “Yes, you are. That’s all you’re thinking about…a football game, and a girl. There’s more to life, Pudge.”

Pudge Abercrombie got to his feet and began walking down the ship canal with the look of a man on a mission. A man obsessed. He turned to his friend, the limp cigarette dangling from his lips, the hellish lake framing his visage. “She wanted you to ask her out. She wanted to go to the dance with you. But you wouldn’t ask her…because you’re my best friend.” The words best friend were dripping with sarcasm.

Jack sat up. “Who told you that?”

Pudge looked at Tommy Robek. Then Jack looked over at Tommy Robek. All the skinny kid could do was shrug his skinny shoulders.

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you, Jack?”

“We’re all in love with her, Pudge. But you’re the only one that’s crazy in love with her. You scare her with your craziness.”

“So ask her out, you dumb shit. Do you think a girl like that comes along more than once in a lifetime?” Pudge yelled the question into the storm. “Go ahead, ask her out…I’ll get out of your way.” He turned and started down the canal.

Jack Start climbed to his feet. “You’re being stupid, Pudge. Come back here. It’s not worth it…she’s not worth it.”

Tommy Robek worked his way to his feet. Wiped the sleet from his face. “You guys are just pissed because you lost a football game. Hell, it’s not your fault. Coach Young was fuckin’ drunk.”

Pudge Abercrombie kept on walking, as if the lake were drawing him in. He threw his unlit cigarette to the side. “It is a good day to die!” they heard him shout.

Another monster wave broke over the lighthouse. It raced with a fury up the canal, drenching heart-broken Pudge up to his knees. It was only because Pudge was built so low to the ground that he was able to keep his balance. Then the wave began its violent return to the lake. And Pudge Abercrombie was off and running, chasing the black water. Sprinting toward the light.

The Wave

Pudge Abercrombie chased the retreating whitecaps down the ship canal, running faster than his stubby little legs had ever before carried him. The air temperature continued its assault on the freezing mark. The wind was howling mad. The big lake was black like ink. Crippling waves lashed at the mammoth rocks. But Pudge to the lighthouse was like a moth to the candle. He leapt up the wet concrete steps and tagged the monolith. Then he turned, jumped down the steps, and started for shore.

It is hard to say what was going through his mind that night, what made Pudge make that last run. Perhaps in high school the combination of losing the big game and then losing the girl is about as bad as it gets. Or just maybe Pudge Abercrombie was as crazy as everybody said he was. Either way, from the safety of shore, everything looked fine. Pudge was the fastest of them all. Though he was certainly being foolish, it appeared to his friends as if Pudge were going to once again beat the lake.

But then things began to happen. Strange things. Lights started going off and on all over town. Up and down the hills. The high winds and driving sleet were interrupting power. The Aerial Lift Bridge behind them seemed suddenly transformed into a giant strobe light. And that’s when they saw it. Jack Start froze in horror. Tommy Robek, too, dropped his jaw, his eyes bulging from his head.

In every storm at sea there is one wave that dwarfs all others. The mother wave, if you will. The wave that sinks ships, and destroys homes along the shore. Suddenly and without warning, everything behind the sprinting Pudge went as black as black can get. From the sea to the sky, from the earth to the heavens, there was nothing behind the Duluth teenager but the specter of utter blackness. It took a few seconds to register with the boys, but that blackness was a solid plain of water. It had shape and form. It seemed to possess life. And it was about to possess Pudge Abercrombie.

“Pudge, run!”

“Run, Pudge, run!”

He never looked over his shoulder, never broke stride, but the two boys could tell from the fear on his face that he was reading the terror in their eyes. Then Pudge Abercrombie, star halfback at Duluth High, was swallowed alive by Lake Superior.

The mother of all waves twisted young Pudge like a corkscrew. He was sent tumbling and spinning at the same time. Pudge washed up within ten yards of his friends, who were backpedaling for their lives. For a second, and it was only a second, it looked like he was safe, that he could stand and walk away. But then the wave from hell began its retreat, dragging Pudge Abercrombie with it. The sheer force of the raging water tore the lampposts out of the concrete. In fact, the whole scene seemed surreal, a desperate struggle for life played out in three-quarter speed. Pudge Abercrombie was being pulled into the lake by an unearthly force. It was clear that he was yelling, but his desperate cries for help could not be heard over the roar of the storm and the crashing of the waves. He went literally kicking and screaming. He fought the lake like a man afire, and it looked for an instant that he might be saved by the lighthouse. But it was not to be. The killer wave actually carried the boy up and over the light.

The last thing Jack Start ever saw of his friend Pudge Abercrombie was the boy’s terrified face poking out the top of that wall of water. His mop of dark, curly hair was already frozen white. Icicles framed his jaw. His arms were stretched out to his side, like a bird in flight. Only Pudge was flying backwards, away from the lighthouse, away from life, back into the dark. Slowly disappearing into the raging abyss of black water.

Jack Start and Tommy Robek collapsed in shock, waiting for the next wave, hoping against hope that the big lake the Ojibwa called Gitchee Gumee would sweep their buddy Pudge back up the walkway and spit him out. But the next giant wave never came. On the contrary, there was a sudden cessation of the wind. Whitecaps washed over the lighthouse and the spray of icy water washed over the boys, but it was as if the great lake had gotten what it had come for, and now it was through.

As power was restored to the town, the two boys sat beneath the lift bridge staring into the blackness. They were freezing. Their wet clothes were stiff like boards. Their hair was frosty and hard. The revolving light of the lighthouse swept over their faces, revealing the tears that were spilling from their eyes. Superior, it is said, never gives up her dead when the gales of November blow early. Their friend, Pudge Abercrombie, was never seen again. Well, not on this earth, anyway.

25 Years Later

They were enjoying drinks at Grandma’s Saloon the first time God showed his pudgy face. Grandma’s was crowded that night, people streaming in from the Lakewalk. Every time the saloon door swung open, an end-of-summer breeze rushed in just in time to refresh the smoky joint. Jack Start and an old friend got lucky and found two empty stools directly beneath one of the television sets. Jack threw a copy of the Duluth Newspaper on the bar. He hung his walking cane on the rail and ordered two beers. The two men lit up cigarettes and caught the score of the Twins game.

Jack’s drinking partner that warm summer night was Old Coach Young. As a much younger man, he had been the head football coach at Duluth High. The last football coach the school had. The kids had loved him, sober or drunk. But the old high school had been closed in the economic downturn of the 1970s. The big red-brick building halfway up the hill was still standing, but it stood empty. Lifeless. Nobody wanted it torn down, but nobody knew what to do with it. Nobody had known what to do with the football coach, either. With shrinking enrollments and closing schools, there were few teaching positions available on the Iron Range. For years the man simply drifted from shit job to shit job, until one day Coach Young became Old Coach Young. He was on disability now, and enough of his former players were still around town to loan him a dollar or two, or to buy him a beer. Besides, the coach knew everybody in town. On both sides of the law. For reporter Jack Start, new again in his old hometown, his high school football coach was a great source.

The television set flickering above them was tuned to KDUL-TV. Home of the Minnesota Twins. “Get this, Coach,” said Jack Start, hoisting his first beer in twenty-four hours, “that cheerleader I interviewed, Miss Grand Tetons… she has an identical twin.”

“Whoa! Do you mean to say there’s four of those puppies?”

Jack Start spit laughter across the bar. Wiped his mouth. “I said identical.”

The Twins were playing the Red Sox. The sound of the announcers could barely be heard above the buzz of the bar.

“I remember their mother was a real looker,” the old coach said in his deep, gravel voice. His gray-white hair was combed straight back, revealing the severe redness of his face. He carried the thick arms of an ex-athlete, and the overlapping belly of a lush. “A real looker,” he repeated.

Jack Start nodded his head in agreement. “You know, I always wondered back then if you guys really looked… I mean, you teachers.”

The coach laughed. “Kid, there was a lot more than looking going on back then.”

“Really? Someday you and I are going to have to have a long, long talk, Coach.”

It was a little past 9 p.m. They were waiting for the baseball game to end so that the local news could begin. It was the top of the sixth inning. The Twins were down one run to the Red Sox. Jack Start and his old coach ordered two more beers. And that’s when it happened. It wasn’t fast or flashy, it was just alien. Unexpected.

With a Red Sox batter at the plate, the TV signal went fuzzy. Then it faded away. Nothing but snow and static. When the picture cleared again, some guy was sitting at a desk talking into the camera. It looked like public-access cable, or like a cheap video taped in an old house. The strange man smiled, a truly engaging smile, and said, “Hi, I’m God.” The man paused for effect. Then he held up a tacky little nameplate that read: I’ M G OD. He added, “Don’t worry about the game. There won’t be any more scoring again until the pitching change in the eighth inning.”

He was a fairly handsome man, in a slovenly sort of way. A heavyset guy who had a round, happy face, with thin brown hair on a receding hairline. There was something mischievous in his smile, but nothing malicious. A benign comedian. He was wearing a blue work shirt. The kind of guy who would fit right in at Grandma’s Saloon. The messy desk he was seated behind looked as if it were located in a spare bedroom, or maybe a room in the basement. The background was cheap wood paneling, the kind installed to hide the holes in the wall. An old Hamm’s Beer sign could be seen over his shoulder. In other words, it could have been in any one of a thousand homes in Duluth. In fact, the whole scene was no frills, no airs, North Shore Minnesota.

“This is the first of what will be seven appearances,” the man who claimed to be God said into the camera. “It is a new millennium.” Then he cracked up. “Millennium…God, I love that word.” He caught his breath. “So anyhow, the time has come to review where you are at as a people, and where you are going. And, quite frankly, if at the end of our little chats I don’t like what I see, I’ll probably flood the whole damn planet, starting with Duluth.” He began laughing. “No, seriously, that was a joke.”

Jack Start and Old Coach Young were staring intently at the television screen, the image of God filtering through the haze of cigarette smoke. A hush fell over their corner of the bar as the bartender and the patrons surrounding them strained to hear the message, apparently being delivered from heaven.

God opened a desk drawer, pulled out a pack of Marlboro in the box, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and lit up. He blew a long puff of smoke at the camera. He coughed, a nasty smoker’s cough, and then cleared his throat. “I think it’s fair to say that you people eat too much, you drink too much, and you watch too much television. And you better cut it out.” He extinguished his mostly un-smoked cigarette in a dime store ashtray. “Oh yeah, and on that religious thing…the Jews are the only ones that got it right.” He started laughing again, an infectious laugh if ever there was one. “Again with the jokes.” He stuck up his hand and waved to the camera. “Anyway, I’ll be seeing you.”

The picture faded to snow and static. Then a Red Sox batter could be seen flying out to deep center field. The Twins had apparently retired the side. One, two, three.

Jack Start took a long swig and then dropped his empty beer mug on the bar. He wiped the froth from his lips. Stared up at the baseball game. “What just happened here?”

Old Coach Young shrugged his shoulders. “Some guy interrupted the Twins game and said he was God.” He dwelled on the idea as he sipped his beer. “I’ll bet it was one of those Volkswagen commercials.”

“Where was the Volkswagen?”

“They never show it at first. It’s a high-concept ad.”

“Oh, please,” begged Jack Start. “Did he look familiar to you?”

“Who?”

“The guy who played God.”

“I think he might have been on a TV series. I know I’ve seen him before.”

Jack Start was having a flashback. “He made me think of Pudge Abercrombie…I mean, you know, what Pudge might have looked like had he lived.”

Old Coach Young smiled, a rueful smile. “Ole Pudge… I haven’t thought about that kid in years.”

“For years I couldn’t stop thinking about him.”

“That’s right, you were on the ship canal that night, weren’t you?”

Jack Start was suddenly drowning in his watery memories. A year earlier he had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. He had lost two wives to divorce, and two jobs to alcohol, but nothing haunted him more than watching his boyhood friend wash out to sea. “Yeah, I was on the canal.”

“Who else was there?”

“Tommy Robek.”

“The skinny kid. What ever happened to him?”

“He was killed in Vietnam.”

The coach shook his head. “That fuckin’ war.” He sucked on his cigarette. “So you’re the only one left alive?”

“Yup, I’m the only one left alive. I should have given the damn ball to Pudge.”

“Say what?”

“Nothing.”

The two men went back to their beer and their baseball, as did the rest of the bar. But a strange feeling had descended over the room. Something of a pall. There seemed to be more thinking going on than talking.

“Are you going to the reunion?” the coach finally asked.

“I didn’t go to the ten. I didn’t go to the twenty. Why the hell would I go to the twenty-five?”

“Because she’s going to be there.”

Jack Start felt his heart stop. After being fired from the only two newspapers in the Twin Cities, and then being diagnosed with MS, he’d had an overwhelming desire to return home. Somewhat of a calling. “How do you know?”

“She’s divorced from the governor, for Christ’s sake. It’s all over town. She’s driving up from St. Paul,” the coach went on. “I think she has one son.”

The veteran reporter exhaled into his beer. “Yeah, that’s what I need in my life right now…a forty-three-year-old ex-cheerleader with the governor’s kid.”

“Maybe that is what you need.”

“I don’t think so, Coach. I’ve got plans.”

The old coach rolled his bloodshot eyes. Snickered in his beer. He looked up at the television set, still a touch of the teacher in his voice. “Do you know how to make God laugh?” he asked. He answered his own question. “Tell him your plans.”

Jack Start, too, looked up at the television set. He could see his reflection staring back. He raised his empty mug of beer in salute. “Here’s to God and all his lovely plans.”

The Red Sox made a pitching change in the eighth inning.

Then the Twins scored two more runs to win the game. The next morning, in a box above the fold, the following article appeared on the front page of the Duluth Newspaper:

The Investigation

In the next three weeks God in a blue shirt interrupted two Twins game and the Viking’s home opener. All on KDUL-TV. “Hi, I’m God.” He held up his little nameplate: I’ M G OD . “Relax, the Vikings tie it up in the fourth quarter… but I won’t tell you how it ends.” Sports fans cried foul. Church groups cried blasphemy. In one of the broadcasts he asked, “Where in God’s name are you people getting these Presidents from?” The FCC was not amused. FBI agents were dispatched from St. Paul. A media frenzy followed. The federal task force investigating the case set up operation on the top floor of a downtown office building, with a spectacular view of the lake.

In the reception area, Jack Start stared out the window at the harbor. The sky over the water was still a rich summer blue, but summer was over. The leaves had begun to change and more often than not the morning breeze was out of the north.

“Mr. Start, Inspector Whitehurst will see you now.”

Jack Start took a seat in front of Inspector Whitehurst’s desk. He placed his walking cane across his lap. Special Agents Black and Flannery stood behind him, guarding the door, but the two never spoke.

The inspector remained standing, shuffling files on his desk before finally breaking the tension. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Start.” He held up a pack of cigarettes. Marlboro in a box. “Smoke?”

“No thanks,” said Jack. “I quit.”

“Recently, I’m guessing. Maybe about the time God showed up on television?”

“So this is about God?”

“No, Mr. Start, he’s all too human. And he’s in a lot of trouble. So is anybody who is helping him. Hijacking a television signal is a serious crime. It hasn’t been done successfully in over twenty years… and that was just a few seconds on a cable channel. This clown is hijacking signals from a network affiliate…and he seems to be doing it at will. Now, he’d have to have an uplink—”

Jack Start couldn’t help but laugh.

Inspector Whitehurst glared down at him. The FBI man was a big man, and an older man, with thin, dark hair combed straight back. He may have been sent up from St. Paul, but the trace of a New York accent still punctuated his lawyerly speech. “Is something funny, Mr. Start?”

The Duluth reporter tried to wipe the smile from his face. “I’m sorry, it was just the thought of God needing an uplink.”

The inspector picked up a file from his desk. Opened it and read, “Lawrence Alden Abercrombie. Also known as Pudge Abercrombie. Do you know him?”

“He’s dead.”

“Actually, his body was never found. He was classified as missing.”

“And seven years later he was declared dead.”

“Then why are you running around town telling people the part of God is being played by Pudge Abercrombie?”

Jack Start explained, carefully enunciating each and every word: “What I’ve said is, he looks like what Pudge might have looked like had Pudge lived.”

The FBI inspector held up a sketch. A computerized sketch. “Our people in Washington put Abercrombie’s high school yearbook picture on their computers and did an age-imaging analysis… what he would look like today. We know that Abercrombie is God.”

“You believe what you want to believe, inspector. Pudge has been dead for years. I saw him die.”

“That’s right, you were his best friend, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What would you say if I told you we traced Abercrombie to a house in Minneapolis, where he’d been living for the past twenty years? Not far from your old place.”

“With all due respect, inspector, I’d say you’re full of shit.”

“Did you two cook this up while you were living down there in Minneapolis?”

“No.”

“So it’s a coincidence that Abercrombie shows up on television just weeks before his high school’s twenty-five year reunion?”

“I don’t know who that is on television, and neither do you.”

“Did Abercrombie have a girlfriend in high school?”

“No.”

“Did you?”

Jack Start thought about it. “No.”

“Are you going to attend this reunion?”

“I hadn’t planned on it, no.”

“Why not?”

The old high school quarterback didn’t answer the question. He stared out the window at Lake Superior. Seemed the great lake was the one constant in his life.

The inspector lifted a transcript from the file. “When God signed off last night, he went off the air singing a World War Two hit.” Now the FBI man began singing, his fingers setting the tempo. “‘I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places… that this heart of mine embraces…all day through…’ Did Abercrombie like that kind of music?”

Jack Start sat listening to the inspector warble, more amazed than amused. He scratched his head. “Actually, Pudge was more into the Beatles.” Suddenly, he put his finger to his lips, as if something had just occurred to him. “There was one thing…”

“What?”

“Pudge liked the Partridge Family. I always thought that was spooky.”

The FBI inspector was losing his patience. “Was there anything else…back in high school?”

Jack gave the question serious consideration. “Once, during our junior year, somebody commandeered the intercom system. Nobody was ever caught, but Pudge was the main suspect. It was pretty harmless stuff. He came on at 1 o’clock and dismissed school for the day. Before the vice-principal got back on the microphone, we were all heading down the hill into town.”

Inspector Whitehurst dropped into his chair, seemingly exasperated. “We’re going to find him…and we’d be surprised if you’re not in cahoots with him.”

“Well, that would surprise me.”

“C’mon, Jack… a drunken, washed up newspaperman with a degenerative disease suddenly finds himself with the big scoop. An exclusive interview with God. You’d be back in the game, wouldn’t you?”

Jack had to chuckle, more to himself than the FBI man. “You’re not really from Minnesota, are you?”

The inspector smiled, an evil little smile. “Let’s talk about that night on the canal… the night he disappeared. Do you think he was suicidal?”

Jack Start took a moment before answering. He was startled, as if some revelation had just come to him. For the first time in years a twinkle appeared in his eyes. “You know, maybe that’s how he gets back and forth.”

“Who?”

“God. He comes down here to live for a while, and then to get back, he stages some spectacular accident.”

“So now you’re saying you went to high school with God?”

Jack Start, one-time star quarterback for Duluth High, raised an eyebrow in delight. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “I never thought of it like that before. And we were in the same backfield.”

The Reunion

Under the suspicion that God might be there, so many people signed up to attend the twenty-five-year reunion that it was moved from a private room at Grandma’s Saloon to the ballroom at the Convention Center, overlooking Canal Park. By the time the reunion was in full swing, non-class members outnumbered the real class members by ten to one. FBI agents were planted at the entrance and the exits. Satellite trucks ringed the parking lot. Reporters were interviewing anybody they could find.

Old Coach Young was popular. “Pudge was a great athlete,” he said into a battery of microphones. “But he lacked discipline. Do you know what I mean?”

“Are you saying God was lazy?”

“No, no. I’m saying the God I knew was something of a screw-off.”

Television sets were scattered around the ballroom in case God made his seventh appearance over the airwaves. Only the night before, in his sixth appearance, God had entertained the Iron Range by popping a beer and choking on a pretzel.

“Hi, I’m God,” he said, coughing up the gooey mess and spitting it into a paper towel. He held up his nameplate: I’M GOD. “I have some really bad news for you people. I’ve thought about it, and I’ve thought about it… and I’m moving to Wisconsin.” His belly laughs filled the television screen. “You know I’m joking you. If it’s the end of the world… I’ll let you know.” He held out his hands, as if baffled. “And what is with all you people falling in love with the wrong person? Open your eyes, for God’s sake.”

The reunion continued. A local band was playing Beatles songs. Badly. More and more drinks were poured. The room grew increasingly louder. And hotter.

“Get you a beer, Jack?”

“No thanks, I’ll stick with the ginger ale.”

“Ginger ale. What’s wrong with him, Coach?”

Old Coach Young raised his hands in surrender. “I can’t figure it out. He quit smoking, he’s not drinking. I swear the devil has gotten ahold of him.”

There was another round of laughter as Jack Start made his way through the crowd. He was actually enjoying himself. In fact, it was almost overwhelming. He set his ginger ale down on a table and walked to the end of the ballroom, where the bay windows over the lake were twenty feet high. Glass from the floor to the ceiling. The old high school quarterback stood there alone looking down at Canal Park. Beyond that was the utter blackness of Lake Superior.

“That’s quite a view. I miss it.”

He turned when she said that. Turned too fast and almost lost his balance. She met his eyes with a smile, and twenty-five years melted away in an instant.

“Hello, Jack,” she added.

He smiled, a genuine smile he hadn’t felt in years. “Hello, Mary.” She was taller than he remembered. Her hair was longer and a bit lighter. And those eyes, the eyes that had crushed little boys’ hearts, were still as bright as any star that hung over the North Shore. In short, she was even more strikingly beautiful than he’d tried to forget.

She gave him a hug, and he embraced her in an awkward manner, not knowing what to do with his cane. When he’d steadied himself, he said, “You’re supposed to be dumpy and all wrinkled up.”

“They told me you weren’t coming.”

“I wasn’t, but then…”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. Might have been something I saw on television.”

She glanced at his cane. “Can you walk?”

“Oh, yeah. The cane is mostly for insurance. It’s my left leg,” he explained, a touch too excited. “Sometimes it just goes to sleep, and then I fall down. It’s kind of embarrassing to be falling down at my age.”

“I meant… would you like to go for a walk?”

The sea breeze in his face felt good. The woman beside him felt heaven sent. Jack Start stared at the long walkway leading out to the lighthouse. Where Canal Park had once been the purlieu of prostitutes and sailors, a multimillion-dollar renaissance had brought restaurants, shops, and hotels, not to mention a million tourists every summer. But on this night the park was quiet. In fact, the great lake itself was as calm as he’d ever seen it. The waves were small, and they lapped against the shore in perfect harmony. It was early October now. There remained only two weeks of decent weather. Then the cold would set in. And the storms would follow.

Jack Start found himself doing something he thought he would never ever do. Never in a lifetime. “I’ve walked past it,” he said. “I’ve stared down at it. But I haven’t set foot on this walkway in twenty-five years.”

“How does it feel?”

“With you, it feels good.”

“Should we walk out to the lighthouse?”

It was a remarkably clear night. Every now and then the revolving beam of light sailed over their heads. Jack and Mary stopped halfway down the walkway. The shadow of a man could be discerned standing at the top of the stairs, at the foot of the lighthouse. They wanted to be alone. So they stood where they were and stared at the galaxy of lights that ran up and down the steep hills. Illuminated hills that rolled up and away from the lake. And at the foot of those hills, throwing an eerie, translucent glow, were the klieg lights from the television crews that surrounded the Convention Center.

With his back to the lake, Jack Start shook his head in amazement. “What a circus,” he said. “You know, excuse the pun, but he really hasn’t said a goddamn thing.”

“It’s those three little words that are driving people crazy.”

Jack had to laugh. “Hi, I’m God.”

She laughed too, but it was a laugh tinged with regret. “Do you think he’s out there somewhere?”

“Who, Pudge?”

“No… God?”

The cynical reporter turned back to the lake. “Me and him have had our differences over the years. I can’t really answer that one.”

She joined him at the wall, staring out at the endless water. “Well then, how about Pudge?”

“You know, Mary, I’ve thought about it, and I’ve thought about it, and it certainly sounds like something Pudge would do.”

“Do you remember when he took over the intercom system?”

“Remember? Hell, I told the FBI about it.”

“But, Jack, would he really hide out for twenty-five years?”

Jack Start shook his head in wonder. “Had to be one hell of a broken heart.”

She thought about that. “He really did love me, didn’t he?”

“Oh yeah. He was crazy in love with you.”

It is said that a friend is someone you can stand in silence with and not be embarrassed by the silence. The two high school friends stood shoulder-to-shoulder facing the great lake—gazing far out into the past, where the water meets the stars. The only sound was the wind whistling over the shore, and the waves washing over the rocks. Time drifted by. At last she took a deep breath and sighed. “Well, I suppose.”

He looked over at her and smiled. “Yeah, I suppose.”

She slipped her arm through his and they walked away from the lighthouse, back up the hill toward their reunion.

God never showed his face again. Never made a seventh appearance. The FCC stiffened the fines for anybody interfering with the airwaves. And Congress passed a bill approving longer prison sentences for any person caught hijacking a television signal. But nobody was ever arrested. The case remains open.