The Weatherman Page 13

  Women didn’t seem of much interest to him, either. Through their changing relationship Rick kept his feelings towards Andrea hidden. Feigned disinterest. But every now and then came a spark of affection and what seemed a flicker of jealousy. Then he would say something that would bother her for days. Like when she mentioned her master’s degree.

  “I can’t imagine what took you five years to learn. You must be really stupid.” And when she told him of the exclusive interview with the new governor, the masked newsman didn’t want to know how the interview went. All he would say, in that smug way of his, was, “Did he ask you out?”

  She cried, “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s married and has two daughters.” That was before Ellefson called, before he made love to her.

  Andrea was happy but confused. She turned to the man elected governor. He seemed asleep. It was Christmas Eve. He would have to be going soon. She turned back to the window. The rain falling through the trees was turning to ice now, just as the Weatherman had said it would. She heard a howling noise, either the wind against the windowpane or the Hound of the Rolvaags. She crawled back into the strong arms of the most handsome man she’d ever known.

  But as Andrea Labore drifted off to sleep that night it wasn’t the face of Per Ellefson she was thinking about. It was the faceless face of the man behind the mask that haunted her.

  Rick Beanblossom had a corner table at the Daily News Bar & Grill where through the window he could watch the freezing storm over the Nicollet Walk. The decor was dark; the ambiance was light: a place where print media met electronic media, and they all pretended they were in the same business. Ironically, it was one of the few bars in town that didn’t have a television set staring customers in the face. That was one of the things Rick liked about this hangout. Besides, he was known here. He could relax.

  The bar and grill was packed, downtown workers waiting for the weather to break before they ventured home to begin the Christmas holiday. Already the streets were coated with sleet. Cars fishtailed down the block. People slid by the window or just slipped and fell. It wasn’t long before photographer Dave Cadieux and television pioneer Andy Mack ducked in out of the frozen spray. They joined Rick at his table.

  “How is it out there?” he asked them.

  Cadieux brushed the ice from his hair. “Freezing rain. Just like the asshole promised.” He threw his coat over the chair. “They’ll be chasing pile-ups all night.” Cadieux was a new breed of news photographer. “Photojournalists” they liked to be called. The title was well deserved. They could tape together whole stories without a reporter. In television news it was not uncommon for the person behind the camera to be smarter and bolder than the person standing in front of it. It was Dave Cadieux who was rolling when the Wakefield boy climbed out of the woods searching in vain for his twin brother. And it was Dave Cadieux who stood atop the tallest building in town and shot the crew of Skyhawk 7 as they chased the Eden Prairie tornado to their doom.

  Andy Mack shook the foul weather from his coat in overdramatic fashion. Then he draped the coat over his shoulder like a cape and raised his hand in speech: “Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night; that thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars as doth the lion in the Capitol; a man no mightier than thyself, or me, in personal action; yet prodigious grown, and fearful, as these strange eruptions are.”

  Rick beckoned to him. “’Tis the Weatherman you mean, is it not, Mr. Mack?” “Indeed, they say, the viewers tomorrow mean to establish him as a king. I know where I will wear this dagger then.” Andy Mack plunged his fist into his heart and dropped into the chair.

  Dave Cadieux thought they sounded like a pair of fools. “What the hell are you two jabbering about?”

  “Shakespeare,” Rick told him.

  “Yes, and very bad Shakespeare, too.” Andy Mack hung his coat over the chair, sat down and caught his breath. “He’s spooky, Rick. When he first came here, I watched him work. I grew up here. I knew more about the weather than anybody in this town until that son of a bitch blew in and knocked me off the air. The guy knows what the weather is going to be.”

  Rick shrugged, didn’t buy it. “It’s just a gift he has, like singing, or throwing a baseball.”

  “No, that’s talent. This guy is spooky.”

  They ordered their drinks. Rick stuck with red wine. The old man combed the few hairs on his head. When the drinks arrived, Andy Mack raised his glass.

  “What are we drinking to?” Rick asked.

  Andy gave the toast. “Back to the days when men were men, and women didn’t work in the newsroom.”They laughed and drank up.

  “I’m sorry,” said Andy Mack, shaking his head in sad resignation, “but I just don’t understand these women today. Take these so-called rape cases in Edina.

  They say they wake up and find this big guy sitting on their bed, like he blew in with the breeze or something. How many times last year did we do a story about a woman who said she was raped, or kidnapped, only to find out a few days later that she made up the whole damn story?”

  Rick raised his fingers. “Three.”

  “Three times last year. And they were our lead stories.”

  “It’s a tough call,” Rick reminded him. Ice pellets were pinging off the glass. The masked producer glanced over his shoulder at the wind-driven sleet. Traffic was backing up. The flashing red lights of an ambulance fought through traffic.

  Andy Mack and Dave Cadieux had another round of Christmas cheer. Then another. As the night wore on, the weather wasn’t getting any better, but their stories were.

  “What was the most disturbing story you ever covered?” Cadieux asked the old man.

  Andy Mack let his mind drift back over the years. “Long time ago, back before abortions were legal, they found a fetus on the sidewalk, like it’d been thrown from a car. And I was standing there looking at it with Catfish Bob—an old photog; he retired years ago—but we could see the little fella’s arms and legs. Next day they found the woman dead in the backseat of a car. She probably got pregnant in that backseat, had an abortion in the backseat, and died in the backseat. When I see an abortion story I always think of that little fella on the sidewalk more than that woman in the backseat.”

  Dave Cadieux wiped his chin. “Do you remember about three years ago . . . this high-school girl had a baby in secret? Strangled it and threw it in a trash can. I was cruising around when I picked the call off my scanner. I got there before the police.”

  Andy Mack was incredulous. “And you shot tape of this?”

  “Whether I shot tape or not, I had to look at it.”

  Rick Beanblossom was enjoying himself, listening to a couple of newsies with a few drinks in them trying to top each other.

  Dave Cadieux leaned across the table. He was beginning to slur his words. “Did I ever tell you guys this one? Last summer, remember, a boat full of people goes over St. Anthony Falls. Capsized. Choppers are trying to pick people out of the water. Rescue boats are paddling into the falls. I’m shooting from a choice spot on the Franklin Avenue Bridge. This detective comes my way. I figure he’s gonna chase me off the bridge, so I lower my camera, but I keep it rolling in case it turns into harassment. He says to me, ‘Do you ever watch Rescue 911with William Shatner?’ I say, ‘Sure, what about it?’ He says, ‘I’ve got the producer on the phone. Save your tape. We might be able to work something out.’”

  Rick Beanblossom and Andy Mack spat laughter across the table.

  Cadieux went on. “These poor people ain’t even out of the water yet, and this cop is putting together a TV deal.”

  They shared another round of laughter. Then Rick lowered his voice to vacate the humor. “Listen, guys, I’m sitting on a story and it’s driving me crazy.”

  “Like what?”

  “I really can’t say. I promised a source. But I’ve got a list of tapes from the resource center. If this thing breaks, Dave, I’ll want you to do the editing. I’ll have the scripts ready, but you’ll have to
edit your ass off. I’ve also got a ton of background material, too. We could beat the hell out of the newspapers on this one.”

  “How big of a story are we talking about?”

  “Bigger than the tornado.”

  “You’re joking me?”

  Andy Mack cut in, excited. “I want to help.”

  Rick put his hand on the old man’s arm. “You’re in. When it breaks, I’ll have a list of things that have to be done fast. You’ll know how to get them done.”

  The old man smiled, a bit tipsy. “It’s those parking ramp murders, isn’t it?”

  It was bar talk, and Rick Beanblossom felt he’d already said too much. He turned away. Ice was coating the window now, turning headlights and taillights into iridescent streaks. Rick was watching this diffused light show when, suddenly, the Weatherman’s face shone on the glass. He appeared almost as some avenging spirit as he rubbed away a spot of ice and squinted. Then he was gone. Rick leaned back in his chair and waited.

  Dixon Bell entered the Daily News in his usual awkward style. He stood in the doorway, adjusting his eyes to the dark. Then he made his way to the bar and ordered a beer. Rick Beanblossom watched him the whole time. The Weatherman made heads turn. Maybe it was his newfound popularity, or his hulking physique, whatever; when he walked into a room people turned and stared. With a beer in hand he made his way over to their table, politely smiling through the crowd. “I thought that was y’all over here.”

  Andy Mack stood and pulled out a chair. “Sit down, Dixon.”

  “No, really, I can’t stay. Just thought I’d grab a cold one before I head home.”

  “Nice weather,” Cadieux remarked.

  “Boy, you called this one right,” Andy said, taking his seat again.

  Dixon Bell remained standing as he stared out the freezing window. “The temperature’s dropping fast,” he advised them. “Be hell to pay come morning. A sheet of ice on everything.”

  Andy Mack raised his glass in salute. “Here’s to the best damn weatherman in America.”

  “To the Weatherman.”

  Dixon Bell smiled, embarrassed by the toast. He sipped his beer and looked slowly around the crowded bar.

  Rick Beanblossom polished off his wine. “She doesn’t come in here, Weatherman.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve never seen her in here.”

  “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Some people call it Minnesota cool, others call it Minnesota smug, but whatever it was, Rick Beanblossom had it. He stared right through the Weatherman.

  Dixon Bell turned and walked away, dropped his beer on the bar and stormed out of the Daily News, disappearing into the demonic weather.

  Andy Mack shook his head disapprovingly. “Why do you ride him like that, Rick? I’ve never known two men who have so much in common who can’t stand each other. If anybody has reason to dislike him, it’s me.”

  “I have nothing in common with him.”

  “You have everything in common with him.”

  Dave Cadieux yawned. “I can’t imagine anything worse than being hung up on a woman that doesn’t give a damn about you. Fuck them kinda bitches.”

  “That guy’s sick,” Rick declared.

  “No,” said Andy, correcting him. “He’s spooky.”

  “You’re drunk, old man.”

  Andy Mack got up to leave, his breathing heavy and strained. He wrestled into his coat. “Merry Christmas,” he said, almost crying. He stumbled toward the door. “And like the Weatherman says, ‘Y’all be careful out there!’”

  The Ice

  By seven o’clock Christmas morning, the Twin Cities were encased in ice—two cities under glass. It was still dark. Lieutenant Donnell Redmond knew the streets would be a mess. He knew this because at ten o’clock the night before he had done the unthinkable and tuned in Channel 7. He wanted to see for himself what the fat boy everybody loved had to say about the storm. After joking with the anchors about Harry Truman, the Weatherman delivered the bad news. “A warm flow of air from the southern plains overran a high-pressure system near the Twin Cities. Expect a mess come morning. Stay off the roads if possible.”

  Not possible if you’re a cop. The BCA office was in St. Paul. Redmond lived on a hill in Minneapolis. He stepped out the front door. His feet flew out from beneath him. He went down the porch stairs on his rear end. He slid across the sidewalk on his back. Then he rolled over and went down the hill to the street on his stomach, his arms protecting his head. It was the fastest he’d ever traveled from his house to the car. He was stunned. He tried to stand, but again his feet went out from beneath him. He lay sprawled on his back across the icy boulevard, peering up at the morning stars. The sky had cleared. “Aw, man, why do I live here?”

  The tall lieutenant who grew up in Florida got to his feet, very carefully this time. He looked at the police Impala in front of him. Never had it been so shiny. He skated around to the driver’s side and tried the door. It was frozen. He gave it a kick. Nothing. It was a state car, so he gave it another kick. The ice fell away. The door opened. He grabbed the scraper from the backseat and spent the next twenty minutes chipping ice off the windshield. He was freezing. He didn’t bother with the rear window.

  Donnell Redmond threw the heater on high. The man on the radio was announcing highway closings. He adjusted the volume on his scanner so that he could monitor road conditions and steer away from accidents. The city streets were like skating rinks. Wrecked and abandoned cars blocked the intersections. Tow trucks were out in force. At one corner an NSP crew was propping up a downed power line. The lieutenant had little control over the squad car as he went slip-sliding toward the freeway, which at least would be sanded.

  Already headlights were inching east and west on I-94. Top speed was thirty miles per hour as Redmond crossed the river into St. Paul. The sand, salt, and melting ice filthied his windshield. He pushed the solvent button over and over. He’d forgotten to check the blue solution. Soon it was empty. The wipers pushed aside just enough mud for him to see the road. But he was almost to work.

  “Car Nineteen, have you got chains on?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “We got a strange call from a cell phone. Caller was driving around Como Lake . . . said he saw what appears to be two people down on the ice . . . might need help. But he wasn’t sure in the dark . . . said it could be tree branches or shadows. Can you swing through the park before you head in?”

  “We’re not near there, but we’ll start that way.”

  Donnell Redmond heard the call. He was moving slowly but steadily down the sanded freeway, approaching the Lexington exit to Como Park. At first he had no intention of exiting onto the dangerous city streets. He glanced at his rearview mirror. Through the ice he could see the blinking blue light of a sanding truck that was following him. Above him the freeway sign read LEXINGTON PARKWAY. Then his curiosity forced him to change lanes. As he started up the exit he swore at himself for being a cop.

  Como Park is the largest park in St. Paul, and because of its sylvan beauty, and its zoo, it is one of the most popular parks in the Twin Cities. The decorative gates to the park’s entrance, coated with ivy and flowers, could very well resemble the Pearly Gates. But in the wintertime, the flowers are dead and the ivy is brown. The entrance gates stuck out of the frozen snow like a pile of rust and dirt.

  The lieutenant fishtailed past the gates and steered for the lake. He applied the brakes, but they were useless. The car kept going, sideways toward the shore. “Always turn into the spin”—they told him that every year. But Donnell Redmond didn’t think Minnesotan. His Florida brain spun the steering wheel the opposite direction. The car whipped around in a complete circle and crashed into a snow bank. He threw up his hands and looked out his window at the plowed drift. “I’m cool.” He kicked open the passenger door and crawled out of the car.

>   The park was frozen, cold and silent. The sun would start up any minute. Huge chunky snow piles blocked his view of the lake. He climbed up a pile but slipped and fell back down. Again he brushed himself off, then, gingerly, made his way to the top of a small, icy mountain. The park pavilion was closed for the winter. Somebody had forgotten to take down the flag. Red, white, and blue icicles hung from the mast. Big ugly blackbirds picked through a garbage can out front. The white promenade on the lakes edge, where the summer concerts were held, had a ghostly appearance, its huge pillars reminding Redmond of southern plantations. White birch trees grew at oblique angles along the shoreline.