The next morning, I watched the snow gently fall outside my front window. I had a fire going, hoping to burn the chill out of my bones.
The early winter was staying with us. I was wrapped in a blanket sitting in my favorite chair in front of the fireplace, going over last night with Medusa, filling in some of the missing pieces to make sense of Medusa and what she told me.
I plowed out the driveway in the morning. The third time in five days. I had been sitting for a few hours, drinking and thinking. I poured a glass of Martel Cognac from the bottle given to me by a former lady friend, Rachel Scanlon. She gave it to me in appreciation for finding the killers of her husband, Mike and their son, Little Mike, in Tombstone Arizona. In my right hand, I held a hand rolled Cuban that I reclaimed from the ash tray. It was one I had started the night before but fell asleep before I could finish it.
The half empty bottle was sitting on the table next to me. Bear was farting at my feet. Once again I was feeling melancholy and it had nothing to do with Bear farting nor the Milwaukee Braves baseball team. With the Braves, hope springs eternal every February when they start spring training. With Bear, every day his farts spring eternal. That’s not a good thing but he can’t help himself. I have tried everything. I changed his diet, I let him out for a few hours every night before letting him back in the house. Nothing seems to work.
My mind was drifting back and forth reminiscing about last night with Medusa and then to Dr. Lundgren and finally I wondered what Deputy Debbie Red Eagle, the little Yaqui Indian who stole my heart back in Tombstone was doing. It was surely warmer in Tombstone Arizona than it was in Pewaukee Wisconsin. Even in a teepee, or whatever, she lived in. I never did find that out. I didn’t get that far. I let out a long sigh, wishing she was wrapped in this blanket with me. She is a Yaqui Indian and they are tough, so I figured Bear’s farts wouldn’t bother her.
I even thought about the English teacher I met a few nights before. I just couldn’t recall her name. I was sure it would come to me.
There was a soft knock at the door. Bear lifted his head and looked at me with his bloodshot eyes.
“Well, go see who it is,” I said.
He got to his feet and ambled into the foyer. “You’re supposed to bark.”
He let out a soft, “Woof.”
“Nice Bear, real nice. That’s sure to scare whoever is out there.”
I looked at my watch wondering who in the hell would be calling at this time of the night. It was 10:30 p.m. and it was snowing again. I knew Hap hooked up with a waitress in New Lisbon and was spending the weekend with her and Dr. Lundgren was in Los Angeles speaking on men and their dysfunctional sexual habits that affect their ability to be intimate with women, so I knew it couldn’t be either of them.
I grabbed my Colt .45 caliber Belly Gun out of its holster from the hook it was hanging on next to the fireplace mantel and walked to the door.
My legs were wobbling. I guess I drank more cognac than I thought.
I grabbed Bear’s collar, in case I had to hold him back, or up, whatever the case may be, and opened the door. The frigid Wisconsin air hit me in the face, again making me wonder what in the hell I was doing here.
Standing on the porch under the light with the hood of his parka tied tightly around his head and with snowflakes