The Hickory Staff

147 TENTH STREET

‘Why do you suppose they call it a trash receptacle?’ Mark Jenkins wrestled to fit a large pizza box into their kitchen garbage can. ‘I mean, as much rubbish as goes into this thing eventually comes out again, right? So it’s not really a receptacle as much as it is a holding centre.’ He bent the box in half against his knee as if he were breaking up kindling wood for a fireplace. ‘I say we start changing the way people refer to it. We can call it the trash holding centre.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘That really doesn’t work, does it?’

Steven Taylor wasn’t listening. He sat at one end of the sofa in their living room turning Higgins’s safe deposit box key over in his hands.

He had been enjoying one of the most wonderful weeks of his life. He had taken Hannah to dinner on Saturday, Catherine’s Duncan Phyfe cabinet lashed securely in the back of Mark’s truck while they drove around Denver looking for somewhere to eat. The following day they had gone for a long hike above the canyon. Hannah had joined him for dinner again on Tuesday, when he had, on an impulse, driven into the city after work and told her he couldn’t wait until Friday to see her again.

Her reaction had been well worth the headache from using the interstate during rush-hour on a weeknight: as she saw him enter the store she excused herself from her customers and walked towards him, smiling – and she took the last three or four paces at a slight run. He had never had a woman run – even a few steps – to be with him before: it was exhilarating.

He was completely smitten with Hannah Sorenson, and that should have been enough to have him walking on air. But all the while, the question of William Higgins’s safe deposit box was festering in the back of his mind.

Mark came in from the kitchen carrying two open beer bottles and handed one to Steven. ‘Are you done with the pizza?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ Steven took a mouthful of cold beer and slipped the key back into his shirt pocket.

‘You know, we should start learning how to cook a few things. This Chinese-pizza-peanut butter diet is going to catch up with us someday,’ Mark mused. Steven laughed as he looked across the room at his best friend. Mark, at twenty-eight, was in perfect physical shape. A well-built African-American, he swam several miles every morning with student members of the high school swimming team, and was invariably up for running, biking, or the most gruelling climbs Steven could find for them on weekends. Steven was in good physical condition, but Mark was a natural athlete.

‘Are you kidding? Look at yourself. You’re a specimen; you look like you were constructed by teenage girls during a pyjama party fantasy game.’ Steven grimaced, then added, ‘But I agree: we ought to start thinking about eating better.’

‘After tomorrow night. One last super supreme – with extra everything – tomorrow night. We’ll finish the beer and kick off a trial period of healthy nutrition on Friday. Deal?’ Mark offered a hand to his roommate.

‘Deal. And then on Friday we’ll… I don’t know, we’ll roast some fish or steam some vegetables or something.’ Steven had no idea what was involved in either roasting or steaming.

Apparently, neither did Mark. ‘Do we have a steamer?’

‘No idea. Maybe we can get a book, or find an idiot’s guide to the kitchen website.’

Mark raised his bottle. ‘To roast fish and steamed vegetables.’

Steven returned the toast. He thought for a few seconds, then suggested, ‘Maybe those things are available as take-out from someplace.’

They both laughed, and Mark headed back to the kitchen: if they were seriously planning to improve their eating habits, it would be best not to leave any leftovers before the start of Nutrition Hell was upon them. As he heaped the remains of the pizza onto two plates, he called, ‘You know, you ought to hand that key over to Howard.’

‘I know, but I’m curious. I can’t even concentrate on work any more.’ Steven switched off the television, a boringly one-sided baseball game. ‘I’m closing up for Howard tomorrow night. When he leaves, I’ll find some reason to go into the safe. I’ll grab a quick look and be home in time for our last night of real food: long live fat, sugar and cholesterol.’

Mark walked over and handed him one of the plates. ‘Enjoy it: we’ll miss it when it’s gone. I understand you’re curious. But whatever is in there has been in there for a long time. You still ought to give Howard the key. Let him decide whether or not to open it.’

‘He’ll say no.’

‘He’s the bank manager. Of course he’ll say no.’

‘Damnit!’ Steven took a frustrated bite. ‘One peek and I’ll throw the key in Clear Creek. It’ll be out of my system for ever.’

Mark shook his head. ‘Dead cats. All over town dead cats. I hope it’s a hundred-and-thirty-five-year-old tuna sandwich. That’ll show you crime doesn’t pay.’ Changing the subject, he asked, ‘So, when do I get to meet the lovely Hannah?’

‘We’re climbing Decatur this weekend to get some shots of the aspens. The weather’s turning; it might be our last run up there without snowshoes. You want to come?’

‘Great.’ Mark absentmindedly adjusted the dust jacket on a coffee-table book about Picasso, then said, ‘You’ve been seeing her a lot. She must be something.’

Steven brightened suddenly. ‘I can’t believe it; I’m completely knocked-down-the-road stupid by her. I think about her all the time-’ he corrected himself, ‘well, except for when I’m dwelling on that miserable safe deposit box.’ He added, ‘I can’t get her out of my head. I’ve never felt like this before and I’m sure I’m going to blow it – maybe hit her with my car, or catch her hair on fire with a flame-thrower, or something like that.’

Mark chuckled. ‘I can’t wait to meet her. If you do happen to see a flame-thrower lying around here, remember: flame-throwers don’t kill people. People kill people.’

Several hours later, Steven was still awake and needing to talk to Hannah. He was worried about waking her, but at last he ventured a call.

‘No, I’m still awake,’ she told him. ‘I’ve missed you these past twenty hours – this is silly. It’s like I’m back in school.’

‘Yeah, I don’t mind, though.’ He took a risk, and added, ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this… I don’t know, maybe never.’

Hannah’s voice dropped slightly. ‘Me too… I wish I could see you, just for a minute, just to say good night properly.’

‘I’ll be there in forty minutes,’ Steven said.

‘We could meet halfway, say, the diner in Golden?’ she suggested, not knowing whether Steven was serious.

‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ he said, and hung up.

It was after midnight when Steven crossed the parking lot to her car. Hannah was standing next to it drinking from a Styrofoam cup. The light from inside the diner gave her skin a warm, surreal glow. She was wearing old jeans, running shoes and a navy blue sweatshirt. Her hair hung over one shoulder like it had the day they met.

He hugged her close and bent slightly to catch the lilac aroma that scented her hair, then tilted her chin up and pressed his lips against hers. She fell into the kiss, her tongue teasing his as he probed the deepest recesses of her silken mouth. He ached for her; as he reached to caress the nape of her neck his hand brushed her breast and even beneath her sweatshirt he felt her nipple tauten.

Still kissing him, Hannah took his hand and moved it back to her breast as she stroked down his chest to his thighs. Steven pressed harder into her, backing her up against the car door.

She moaned softly and ground her hips into his. Steven thought he might explode, right then and there in the diner parking lot. When Hannah slid her hand between his legs, he backed away far enough to say, ‘You’ll need to check the morning paper.’

‘What? What are you- Why?’ Hannah wasn’t paying much attention.

‘Tomorrow’s paper,’ he said again, ‘just check it to be sure I make it home all right.’

‘Why is that?’ She returned to his mouth, licking his lips salaciously before kissing him hard again.

‘Because I fully expect to crash my car before getting anywhere near the highway.’

At that, Hannah laughed, an embarrassed, blustery chuckle that filled Steven’s heart.

He laughed too, and Hannah released him.

Sliding her hands into the back pockets of his jeans, she pouted, ‘All right, if I have to stop.’

‘I think it’s for the best. I’d hate to overhear the paramedics in the ambulance discussing the suspicious wet spot on the front of my jeans – Jesus, what would they tell my mother? “Uh, yes, Mrs Taylor, he was wearing underwear, but they were soiled… uh, no ma’am, the other side.” Good thing I’d be beyond caring; I’d never live that down!’

Hannah laughed out loud and pushed him away playfully. ‘Go on, silly. But this weekend, we’ll continue from where we left off, and no excuses.’ She growled softly. ‘It’ll be worth your while, soldier.’

‘It will, without doubt, be the greatest eleven seconds of my adult life.’ He bent down to take her lips once more.

They laughed together, and Hannah kissed him tenderly a final time. ‘Good night,’ she whispered, ‘dream of me.’

‘Believe it.’

Mark walked down Miner Street towards Owen’s Pub in the October twilight. It had snowed lightly during the afternoon and the students in his history classes had been impossible to manage: they were convinced a storm was coming and they would wake to a school closure. Mark knew the snowfall was just a dusting, the sight of the buildings coated thinly in white refreshed him: it was as if the entire town had been given a coat of whitewash, a brisk autumn cleansing to rinse away the vestiges of the summer tourist season. His boots left unmistakable prints on the snowy sidewalk.

He was glad the weekend was coming, although it was likely the snow would mean the cancellation of their planned assault on Decatur Peak. Light snow in town could mean several feet above the tree line.

Idaho Springs on a weeknight was an interesting dichotomy: welcoming, colourful tourist shops that were completely devoid of tourists. Mark preferred it that way. Idaho Springs was a tourist stop – just that, a stop, never anyone’s destination – but that still meant several important perks for those who lived in town. Mark mentally tallied his favourites: first, a wide variety of news sources. Mark, a New York native, loved being able to pick up the New York Times or even the Boston Globe to catch up on news from the northeast. The second was great coffee, perhaps the town’s most important contribution to the state economy since the mining boom, with outstanding varieties, from Brazilian to Turkish, available every day. Just thinking about it made his mouth water.

He checked his watch and crossed Miner. Steven was slated to close the bank at 5.30, so Howard would have a thirty-minute head start at the bar. The roommates already had plans for their last pizza later that evening, but one never knew how the night would unfold, especially when Howard had a comfortable lead on the pack.

Coming through the front door of the pub, Mark had a moment of self-consciousness about being black. The bar was filled end-to-end with white people and although he knew most of them, it was at times like this he felt out of place. It didn’t often happen – he was known and respected by the local community because he taught their children at the high school – but even so, there were not many people of colour in the Springs and from time to time he felt strangely isolated, although he was coming to feel as if the town was his true home.

Those people rushing by on the interstate had no idea how gratifying it could be to live in the foothills. They were all in such a hurry to get to a destination; their stop here rarely merited more than a quick glance while buying an out-of-state paper or stirring sugar into an espresso.

Mark had been drawn to the mountains ever since he was a young boy, when his parents had taken him and his sister on a cross-country trip. The majestic beauty of the Rocky Mountains had made an indelible impression on Mark’s father: he had not wanted to leave. Mark’s parents had planned and saved for years for this trip; they had hoped to reach the Pacific Ocean and drink expensive wine on Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. Instead, their journey was stalled in the Rockies for several days.

It was as though Mark’s father could not force himself to drive west over the Continental Divide and on into Utah. Instead, they had gone hiking, taken mining tours, ridden the George-town Loop Railroad and even tried fly-fishing in the national park. While his sister had grown bored, Mark had been happy to remain in the hills. He knew, even then, that he would return.

Grainy 8"? 10" photos enlarged from snapshots of expansive mountain vistas had adorned the walls of the Jenkins home on Long Island and ten years later Mark’s father returned to help his son move into the residence hall at Colorado State University in Fort Collins. It was like coming home for both of them. Mark’s father had never forgotten the impact that trip had on him, and the strange way he had made such a powerful connection with the craggy peaks and lush green forests.

Standing in the doorway of Owen’s Pub now, Mark thought of his father and decided to call home the following day, then he moved into the crowd and began searching for Howard Griffin. Like any neighbourhood bar at 5.00 p.m., Owen’s was noisy, but it was crowd noise, the directionless, rhythmless, flat tones of people carrying on about politics, romance, October baseball and the coming ski season. Mark found weekends at Owen’s more enjoyable, when an elderly Italian couple provided music from a small stage in the far corner of the bar. Vincent and Maria Casparelli had been playing together since the fifties and Mark was convinced there was not a song in the entire jazz repertoire they did not know. Enthusiastic patrons would scribble barely legible requests on cocktail napkins and deliver them with a few dollars to the top of Maria’s piano. Vincent would glance at the napkins, nod telepathically to Maria and the duo would begin piece after piece without missing a beat. Vincent played saxophone, improvising between verses, but it was Maria who carried the act. Her jazz work verged on perfection; Mark rarely heard her recycle riffs, even though she played hundreds of songs, week after week.

Vincent invariably wore a suit with a Paisley ascot, his pork pie hat hanging on a wooden peg above the piano; Maria was dressed in the uniform of the serious piano matron: a dark skirt with a white blouse and a pink corsage accented with baby’s breath pinned over her breast. Buying Vincent a rye on the rocks late in the evening would always bring on a story about summers in the Catskills or playing nightclubs in New York City with Woody Herman’s band.

Howard Griffin was not difficult to spot. He was leaning against the bar expounding to a small group of twenty-one-year-olds that included Myrna Kessler, a former student of his. As he headed towards them, Mark overheard Howard’s sermon – he had obviously worked his way through several beers already.

‘-and anyone who’d ever seen him play would know that even if he did bet on baseball, he would never have bet on his team to lose. The guy had no idea how to lose. Either way, who cares any more? Put him in the Hall of Fame.’ Finding little agreement from the crowd of young drinkers, Griffin gave up. ‘Ah, you’re all too young to know him anyway.’ He spotted Mark and called excitedly, ‘Hey, Mark, over here.’

It was 5.45 p.m. before Steven arrived, and Mark immediately noticed his roommate looked nervous. Steven greeted the small group, placed his briefcase beneath the barstool and nodded to Gerry, the bartender, who brought him a dark draught beer. Howard, seeing Steven reach for his wallet, insisted Gerry add the beer to his tab.

‘Well thanks, Howard,’ Steven said, raising his glass to his boss.

‘No problem. Did the place get locked up okay?’ Howard pulled at a tortilla chip held firmly by a resilient piece of hardened cheese.

‘No, I thought I’d leave it open tonight; left the safe door open, too.’ Steven forced a smile and avoided eye contact with Mark.

‘No one loves a smartass, Stevie,’ Howard laughed.

‘Steven,’ Myrna corrected. Howard ignored her.

The group drank together for another hour as the noise level grew steadily more deafening. Mark watched Steven calm noticeably as he finished his third beer. It was obvious he had investigated the contents of the old miner’s safe deposit box and was now feeling guilty, but Mark decided it was not that heinous a crime. He just hoped Steven would manage to avoid getting into trouble for it. He called above the din of the crowd, ‘Hey, I’m heading up the hill.’

‘Wait; use my phone and we can pick dinner up on the way. I’ll just say goodbye.’ He turned to Howard, leaned over and shouted above the racket, ‘Hannah and I are getting together late tomorrow night. So don’t worry about closing up tomorrow afternoon, I’ll take care of it again.’ He would need a few uninterrupted minutes in the safe the following day; this was the answer.

Howard nodded, ran the back of his hand across his mouth and gave Steven a quick fatherly hug. ‘I’m getting out of here myself soon. I already know I’ll feel like the Passaic River tomorrow morning so don’t expect me on the dot of eight.’

Steven was amused. In the three years he had worked at the First National Bank of Idaho Springs, he had never expected Howard Griffin on the dot of eight.

Mark grabbed a book of matches from the large fishbowl on the bar. The bar’s phone number was printed on the back so he could call later to check out when the Casparellis were on. He fancied listening to the old Italian duo fire up their amazing rendition of some Art Tatum or Fats Waller tunes over the weekend.

Outside, they loped lazily towards the pizza place. Remembering his list of perks, Mark tallied number three – great pizza – then turned to Steven. ‘So, you opened the safe deposit box.’

‘Guilty,’ Steven answered. ‘I did.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘And what was in there? Not my tuna sandwich, I hope,’ Mark teased.

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t tell what it was, so I-’ Steven paused and glanced behind him quickly, ‘-I took it with me. It’s here in my briefcase.’

Mark laughed hard, nearly doubling over. ‘You’re a felon,’ he said, still laughing until the realisation sank in and he stared at Steven. ‘Christ on a plate, you are a felon. You just robbed your own bank. I can’t believe you robbed your own bank.’

‘I didn’t rob my own bank,’ Steven said defensively. ‘I already offered to close up tomorrow night; I’m putting the stuff back. This is more like archaeology than larceny.’

‘Sure, Indy. And what do you mean by “stuff ”?’ Mark was curious now too. ‘Were there multiple unidentifiable deposits made into Mr Haggardy’s account?’

‘Higgins,’ Steven corrected, ‘and yes, there were two things and I don’t know what either of them are. You can help me when we get home.’

‘Oh sure, of course, drag me off to prison as well, why don’t you? It’ll be a great opportunity for me to brush up on my spirituals while I’m bashing rocks on a chain-gang with you.’ Mark turned into the pizza restaurant with Steven close behind.

Waiting at the take-out counter, Mark asked, ‘How did you deal with the security camera?’

‘I made a point of finishing my paperwork before Howard left. That way, I could start mopping and dusting the lobby while he was still there. Tomorrow, his security tapes will show me entering Chapman’s old safe with a bucket and a dust rag.’ The pizza arrived and as Steven paid for it with his credit card, he told Mark, ‘Don’t let me forget to write this cheque tonight.’

‘What? Your Visa bill?’

‘Yeah, I can finally get it to zero. I want to send the cheque first thing tomorrow – no, to be sure I’ll put it in the box tonight. I’ll sleep better knowing it’s already on its way.’

Mark shrugged. ‘Congratulations. And I’m thrilled you decided to celebrate by robbing your own bank.’

‘Are you going to be able to lay off that any time soon?’

‘Probably not, but if I do, I’ll let you know.’

Later that evening, the pizza eaten and the kitchen littered with peanut shells and beer cans, Steven and Mark slumped in their living room with Steven’s unopened briefcase on the floor between them. Mark yawned and stretched. ‘Well, let’s open it.’

‘All right.’ Steven lifted the briefcase to the coffee table near the sofa and opened it. ‘Here they are.’ He reached into one side of the bag and pulled out a wooden box.

‘That’s rosewood,’ Mark observed, leaning forward in his chair and reaching for the box. ‘It certainly isn’t native to these hills.’

‘No,’ Steven answered, ‘and I don’t suppose this cylinder is either.’ He held a long cylindrical container aloft for a moment, then placed it on the table. ‘I can’t explain it, but this one makes me feel strange, almost like it wanted me to open the drawer.’ He chose his words carefully as he continued, ‘Like it wants me to open it now.’

‘I think you’ve had one too many.’ Mark came across the room to examine the cylinder. ‘Sheez, it’s heavy,’ he said, surprised, then, looking strangely at Steven, added, ‘You know, you may be getting me a little spooked here, too, because it does feel odd. It’s like I’m compelled to see what’s inside.’ He sat on the edge of the sofa and sighed. ‘Well, there’s no point robbing the bank for nothing. Let’s go.’

Steven reached first for the rosewood box. It was a six-inch cube, with twin gold latches holding the top in place. Looking closely at the hinges, Steven feared he would have to pry them apart, but when he pulled on one, it opened smoothly. He felt his heart race and wiped his hands on his jeans before tugging gently on the lid, holding his breath as he did. It also opened easily, as if it had been oiled every month for the last century. Inside was a piece of velvet-like material over padding, protecting what looked like A rock. An ordinary piece of rock.

‘What is it?’ Mark asked.

‘My best guess,’ Steven said as he reached into the box and removed the stone, ‘is that it’s a rock.’

Mark laughed and said sarcastically, ‘No, officer we left all the cash, but couldn’t part with this rock. Oh, sure, we have a whole bunch out in the yard, but look at this one, a dead miner chose this one.’

‘Knock it off,’ Steven said, irritated. ‘What do we know about geology? This might be an enormous hunk of something really valuable.’

‘Sure,’ Mark answered, ‘and it might be a rock. Haven’t you heard of mercury poisoning? Some of those miners were flat-out bozo. I think one of them came into your bank to give a permanent resting place to his favourite rock, Betsy.’ Despite his sarcasm, Mark could not deny that a curious sensation began to creep along his spine. He looked again at the stone before turning his attention back to his roommate.

‘Well, let’s open the cylinder. Maybe there’s something more exciting in there.’

Steven’s hopes were renewed when he picked up the container and began unscrewing the cap. With his first turn, the mood in the room changed. Something was happening. The cylinder hummed with an energy all its own; the air shimmered, almost as if an industrial-sized humidifier were pumping invisible steam into their living room. Mark’s expression was impenetrable, a grim mask of determination, while Steven’s was guilty, like an eight-year-old who’s regretting stealing a few penny candies. ‘I’m closing it,’ he announced suddenly.

‘No. It’s okay.’ Mark moved a little nearer. Steven changed his mind and continued unscrewing the cap. With each turn, the energy level in the room increased. Mark, uncomfortable, looked for something to do with his hands.

‘I’m afraid to touch anything, it’s like there’s static electricity everywhere.’ The room shimmered and Mark was certain he saw various objects, the fireplace tools, a paper plate with a floral print and a bright silver beer can, moving in and out of focus. ‘It must be something radioactive. I don’t understand it. It’s-’

‘No,’ Steven interrupted, ‘it’s cloth. It’s some sort of strange cloth. Move the coffee table. We’ll unroll it on the floor in front of the fireplace.’ Mark hastily pushed the coffee table against their sofa, then, a little nervously, backed himself across the room to stand on the hearthstone. In the kitchen the telephone rang, but both men ignored it, transfixed by the strange piece of rolled material. Steven knelt down and began spreading the cloth. ‘Look at this, it unfolds lengthwise as well.’

‘Go ahead,’ Mark encouraged, although he didn’t sound completely convinced this was a good idea. His arms were held tightly against his chest, his hands clenched into fists and tucked under his chin. He looked as though he might, at any moment, claw his way up the chimney to safety.

Steven unfolded the long rectangular cloth. It was about ten feet wide.

‘Look at that,’ Mark said in awe as green and yellow flecks of light danced in the air above the tapestry, like fireflies on a humid summer evening.

‘It doesn’t hurt to touch it or be near it,’ Steven said, bewildered, ‘but it must be electric, or maybe radioactive, like you said. It’s really changing the atmosphere in here. Is that smell ozone?’

‘Uh, yeah.’ Now Mark was frightened. ‘We need to call someone. This guy must have come across some plutonium or radium in a mine up there. It might even be in that rock. Maybe over time it worked its way into the fabric of this thing.’

‘I can’t believe how large it is,’ Steven mused. ‘How the hell did it fit in that small container?’ He unfolded the last corner of the tapestry and let it fall from his hand to the hardwood floor. ‘What do you suppose these designs are?’ he asked, considering the series of strange figures and shapes arranged across the expanse of cloth.

‘I have no idea,’ Mark answered. ‘A lot of Asians helped open the west. Maybe this is some sort of Asian scroll, some art form.’

‘I don’t know. They don’t look like Asian characters to me. Look at that one near your foot.’ Steven pointed. ‘Is that a tree?’

‘Tree? Wait a minute-’ Mark cut their analysis short. ‘Steven, if that thing is radioactive, we’re dying, right now. We need to get out of here.’

Steven paused, his mind racing to come up with some way to avoid getting fired for breaking into the safe deposit box. ‘You’re right. Let’s go. We’ll head down to Owen’s and call the School of Mines or the police or someone.’ He started to back away. ‘C’mon, but you’d better not step on it.’

‘Right, right, let’s go.’ Mark started moving around the edge of the tapestry. ‘Grab my coat. It’s on the back of the chair in the hall.’

Steven went to retrieve Mark’s jacket and grab his wallet from the table in the kitchen. When he returned, his roommate was gone.