The Driftless Area Read Free Page B

tried to put his foot up on the cement floor of the picnic shelter but he missed, so he tried again and made it.
    “Been drinking?” said the old man.
    “A little bit.”
    “Well, this is the night for it, I guess.”
    “I’m at a party up the street.”
    “Are you ready?”
    “For what?”
    “I don’t know. The new year. Whatever it brings.”
    “More than ready.”
    “Good. Let’s shake on it.”
    They took their gloves off and shook hands.
    “Listen,” said Pierre. “It’s pretty cold out here. Why don’t you come along to this party I was telling you about.”
    “Oh, I don’t think so. Painful introductions. Onion dip on the table. It’s not for me.”

    “It’s just a circus anyway. Nobody knows who’s in one room from the next.”
    “You go alone. I’m sure you’ll find it.”
    When Pierre was out of sight, the old man got up and walked across the park to the street where his car was parked. His name was Tim Geer. He drove north out of Desmond City and up through Shale to a house on the bluff above the lake. He got out of the car and knocked on the door, where he was met by a young woman in faded jeans, red socks, and a black felt shirt. She invited him in and poured two glasses of champagne, and they sat in the house and talked.
    “He made it,” said Tim. “Showed up at midnight.”
    “How do you know it’s him?” she said.
    “He wouldn’t have been there otherwise. And you’ve seen the skater, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, he’s the skater.”
    “When does that happen?”
    “Not for a while. You’ll know.”
    “It seems kind of underhanded, doesn’t it.”
    “Can’t be helped, Stella. You came here out of a pretty bad situation, if you remember.”
    “Yes.”
    “And the one that put you there has got to be found. That’s only right. And you can’t do it, and I can’t do it.”

    “But this guy can.”
    “I think so.”
    “How?”
    “I don’t know. That’s for him to figure out.”
    Pierre walked back to the party. Everything looked different following his encounter with the old man—the cars along the road seemed newer, the snow less trampled upon. And when he opened the door and walked into the house he realized that he was at the wrong party.
    Momentum or perhaps fear of embarrassment carried him across the living room, and he sat down in an easy chair. The two parties were very different. Here the floors were polished hardwood with a vibrant green rug in the center, and there were flower paintings on the walls, and middle-aged people had gathered around a piano by the picture window to sing “This Magic Moment.” They had lyric sheets and dark pewter mugs to swing back and forth, keeping time like happy people on a television show.
    The music stopped after a while. The piano faltered and the voices died away. A man in an embroidered vest led the group from the piano to the chair where Pierre was sitting. The man was short and burly and the vest illustrated an alpine scene in which a horse cart had overturned, spilling riders in the snow, and the horsesstood looking back over their shoulders. There was a little story going on right in that vest.
    “Do you know someone here?” said the man.
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Then what might I ask are you doing?”
    “I was at a party,” said Pierre. “But it wasn’t this party. I don’t really understand what’s going on.”
    “Someone’s private home is what’s going on. And you have to leave. I’m an off-duty police officer.”
    “I’m a bartender.”
    “Tell you what we’re going to do, and that is, Get up and walk out of here like none of this ever happened.”
    “Is there onion dip on the table?” said Pierre.
    “Onion.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Never mind what’s on the table.”
    “Do you want to see my coin trick?”
    “No.”
    But then a woman spoke up on Pierre’s behalf.
    “Oh for God’s sakes let him do his coin trick,” she said. “The poor kid only wants to do a coin trick on