TINKERBELL ON WALKABOUT

  Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  www.bookviewcafe.com

  Book View Café Edition

  September 15, 2015

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-548-9

  Copyright © 2015 Maya Kaathryn Bohnhoff

  Tinkerbell on Walkabout

  “Take varm clothes, Gina,” Mom says. “Is cold at night.” She’s said the same thing in the same moose-and-squirrel accent since I was twelve and going off to summer camp.

  “Mom,” I say, “it’s May.”

  “Sveater veather,” she says, pulls the aforementioned garment out of my dresser, and lays it atop my duffel.

  It’s the bulkiest sweater I own, bright red, and makes me look like a big, fuzzy chili pepper. It also takes up half the duffel, but it was her gift to me. Need I say more?

  We have this conversation every time I leave home for more than a day and I always leave with extra sweaters, extra sox, vitamins of all kinds and—

  “You have your obereg?”

  This literally means “protector” in The Mother’s Tongue and, like the sweater and vitamins, is something Mom will not let me leave home without. Not that she’d admit to being superstitious. But with a PhD in Russian folklore, a fascination with arcana, and a vast collection of materia magica from all over the world, she views packing an amulet as a practical consideration. Better safe than sorry, after all.

  I reach into my jeans pocket and retrieve the obereg du jour—the smallest of a set of nesting matryoshka dolls that have spent some time under the altar at Our Lady of Kazan.

  “See? I’m all obereg-ed up.”

  “Good,” she says. “Don’t vorget to say goodbye to Edmund.”

  I never forget to say goodbye to Dad, who never says word one about sweaters, vitamins, or amulets. My down-to-earth Japanese-American father only ever asks: “Did you pack your sidearm?”

  I sometimes think people with dysfunctional families have it easy. Okay, not really. My odd but stubbornly functional family is what got me through my teens, my epic washout from the police academy, my broken engagement, my ex-fiancé’s trial for attempted murder, and my current meanders. They don’t seem to mind that at twenty-four I’m still trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up.

  Now, as I speed my Harley northeast on Interstate 80 toward the picture postcard capitol of Northern California, I reflect that I have always and only wanted to be a cop. I still do, notwithstanding I’ve proven I’m not cop material.

  I’ve toyed with the idea of becoming a P.I., but I have reservations. Not because the work is hard and dangerous—no problem, I have an obereg for every occasion—but I mean, honestly, how seriously would you take a detective who’s five-foot-one and weighs ninety pounds in a soggy trench coat?

  Hence, I am heading upstate for a Gold Country walkabout, thanks to my high school buddy, July Petersen, who insists I come up and check out the California Forestry Department.

  Gina Miyoko, Forest R-r-ranger. Right.

  The drive takes three hours and I reach Grass Valley depressed and strung out on Starbucks. No fewer than three large men—also mounted on Harleys—observed that my hog is “a lot of bike for a little girl.” That’s one chauvinist pig-dog per hour.

  July lives with her parents. This is not because she’s a deadbeat, but because she likes living with them. July’s parents are nearly as odd as my own. As evidence of this, I offer the fact that she has a brother named March and a sister named October. One wonders what would have happened if March had been a twin. Or had been born in May or June.

  July is a cop—California Highway Patrol. She is also my hero, and has been since high school when she assumed the full time job of protecting our little quartet of social misfits. We were misfits for reasons of stature: Rose Martinez was too chubby; July was too tall and buff; Lee Preston and I were too small. We were the Spratts, Mutt ’n’ Jeff, Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy—all rolled into one much-maligned group.

  None of us dated much, including July, notwithstanding she was statuesque and blonde. In the years since, she hadn’t sprouted any significant others, so I am understandably floored when, over lunch, she asks casually: “So, you want to help me plan my wedding?”

  “Your what?”

  She smiles into her Thai coffee. “Wedding. You know the thing where you stand in front of a minister and trade poetry?”

  I’d be standing in front of a Buddhist monk and a Russian Orthodox priest, but whatever. “When?”

  “July, of course.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, but I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. You may recall that I flunked Wedding 101.”

  Her smile fades and she gives me a glance screened by long, coppery lashes. She’s about to apologize for something she couldn’t possibly have saved me from.

  I spare her the awkward moment. “I didn’t know you were dating.”

  “I wasn’t. I don’t do dating.”

  “So, who’s the lucky guy? Do I know him?”

  “Yeah, pretty well, as a matter of fact. Lee Preston.”

  “Lee? Criminy, July, you’ve known Lee forever.”

  She shrugs. “You think of someone as a friend long enough, sometimes you don’t know there’s more there until something happens, and you realize things can change. You know what I mean.”

  I do. Dad had nearly died when I was thirteen. He’d been on the Grass Valley PD then, and a drunk driver had nearly taken him out during a routine traffic stop. I still can’t drive through the intersection of Sutton and Brunswick without sweating.

  “Lee got a job offer from a radio station in San Francisco. As we discussed whether he’d take it, we realized . . .” She shrugs eloquently.

  “So he’s staying at KNCO?”

  “Nope. He’s going to SF. I’m going to the SFPD.” She pauses to give me an oblique glance. “Which your Dad has apparently not mentioned.”

  “Dad knows?”

  “He helped set up the interviews.”

  “I owe him one,” I say, not sure exactly what I owe him.

  We spend the afternoon bumming around Grass Valley and its über-touristy twin, Nevada City. That evening we dine with July’s parents and Lee, who has grown from a geeky adolescent to a drop dead gorgeous man. All in a compact 5-foot-7-inch frame.

  “You’re too tall for him,” I tell July as we police the kitchen after dinner.

  “Height-ist are we? That’s one step away from sexism. You, of all people, should be sensitive to issues of stature.”

  “I’m just saying,” I object, “that you could’ve let me have him. He’s a titan in my little universe.”

  We sit on the Petersen’s deck, playing Gin Rummy by fragrant citronella candles (which seemed to amuse the mosquitoes more than deter them), and watching the breeze toss the treetops below the house. Further down the hill, the security lights of the Petersen’s brickworks spill into the two lane county road that separates it from Wray’s Wrecks.

  The lights at the wrecking yard are dimmer, and I can make out a row of trees on the opposite side of the long, two-story garage. I catch the flash of car headlights from the highway beyond the lot. Good place for a wrecking yard. Easy access for tow trucks, and Highway 49 does a bang-up job of supplying business.

  “July says you’re thinking about becoming a private eye,” Lee says as he trounces us at Gin for the third time.

  Jan Petersen—short for January—makes a tsk-ing sound. “That’s a dangerous job,” says she whose only daughter went into law enforcement right out of high school.

  I’m not thinking about becoming anything at the moment, but I rise to the bait. “Not with the proper training.”

  Jan shakes her head. “It’s just hard to imagine you skulking around alleys, carrying a gun.”

  “Taurus Magnum,” I announce. “Lightweight, small, and a pretty shade of blue. Recoil’s a bitch, but I take target practice twice a week.”

  Lee grins at me across the table. “I’d think you’d have an advantage not looking like a textbook P.I. Who’d suspect Tinkerbell of casing them?”

  July agrees absently. “Uh, huh . . . Now what’s gotten into Bob?”

  We all follow her gaze. Wray’s Wrecks is ablaze with light.

  “Jiminy Christmas,” says July’s Dad (whose name is simply and sensibly John), “he’s got every light in the place on.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to flag down passing UFO’s,” I offer.

  John Petersen chuckles. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Bob Wray is an odd duck. A truly nice man, but odd.”

  We watch as a trio of random-sized dogs fans out from the garage that dominates the northeast corner of the long yard. The place is several acres in size, but doesn’t look like any wrecking yard I’ve ever seen. Not that I’m a junkyard aficionado, but anyone who owns a Harley is more than passingly familiar with them. This one’s peculiar, even at first glance. There are no dizzyingly vertical piles of car corpses or randomly scattered body parts. Bob Wray’s junkyard is relentlessly horizontal and scrupulously tidy. The wrecks, viewed from the Petersen’s front porch, are laid out in a grid of neat, even rows.

  “You suppose he has a Harley carburetor?” I muse.

  “Who doesn’t?” Lee asks. “Question is: is it any better than the one you’ve already got?”

  “I have four. You can never have too many carburetors.”

  The lights at Wray’s Wrecks dim as suddenly as they came on.

  “Huh,” says July.

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  “Gin,” says Lee.

  I rub the matryoshka in my pocket and reflect that perhaps the old Church Fathers are right: card games are demonic.

  Saturday we look up old friends and old haunts. The area has changed radically since I lived here. Grass Valley has sprouted strip malls and department stores while the downtown area has been tourist-ified. Where there were once hardware stores and other such homely establishments there are now trendy restaurants, boutiques, and art galleries. There are old-fashioned street lamps, lots of cobblestone, planters and even a freestanding cast iron clock stationed at the main intersection. The art deco theatre has been completely refurbished.

  Oddly and comfortingly, it is still the town I remember—a nice place to have grown up, despite the fact that it’s still lacking in . . . well, color, not to put too fine a point on it. I’d been one of only five Asian-American kids in high school and the other four were Chinese from local families who’d been here since their great-grandparents worked the mines and laundries. Now they own restaurants.

  I comment on this to July as we wander Nevada City after lunch.

  “Still the whitest county in the state,” she admits, grimacing. “In law enforcement circles we’re still a ‘white enclave.’ That’s changing though. More African American families are moving in, and the Chinese and Maidu, who’ve been here forever, are coming out and getting more involved in the community. The Maidu just opened a new cultural center.”

  “That’s great.”

  “It’s too slow for my partner, though. Mike’s been talking about going back down to the Bay Area, too. Taking his family someplace more diverse.”

  “Tell him to come on down. I’m sure my dad could set him up with a job.”

  “He should set you up with a job. Why don’t you let him? You really should be a cop, Gina. Aren’t you willing to give the Academy another try?”

  “Sure, but I doubt the Academy would give me another try. I was bad at following orders—remember? And unable to lift fully grown men given to a high fat diet.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “Wray’s Wrecks. I’d still like a carburetor.”

  Bob Wray turns out to be a tall, bear-like black man who could be thirty-five or sixty. There is a little gray in his hair and a bald spot in the crown of his head, but his face is ageless except for a tiny set of pleats between his brows. These give him a quizzical expression, as if he’s waiting for the punch line to a long and convoluted joke.

  Bob leads us through the wrecking yard to the ‘Motorcycle Department.’ From the triple-bay garage with its large office and storage room, we cross a gravel parking lot to a wide gate in the chain link fence that encloses the vehicular debris. A stand of photinia fronts the yard, forming a thick hedge that completely screens it from the road.

  Inside the fence, the impression of extreme orderliness is doubled. Each wreck occupies a spot with enough clearance for someone to comfortably stroll around it. The distance between the cars is exact and unvarying.

  The Motorcycle Department is as neat as the rest of the place except for the partially dismantled Electro-Glide that sits on a workbench in front of a neat white stucco cottage with a royal blue roof, door, and window frames. A guy is working on the bike, removing parts from the Shovelhead engine. Like Bob, he’s wearing royal blue coveralls and a matching baseball cap with the Wray’s Wrecks logo on the front.

  When he turns to face us, I recognize him. He’s Perry Dixon, a high school classmate. Not a member of the misfit brigade, but a jock . . . and our sometime tormentor. Perry had been a hanger-on, a follower rather than a leader. He never hurled insults, just stood mutely by, grinning, while his buddies heaped on abuse. His job was delivering the parting semi-apologetic smile.

  I promise myself I will not hold this against him, but there is a split second in which I wish I’d paid more attention when Mom lectured on the proper way to give the Evil Eye.

  I say: “Hi, Perry. Remember me?”

  “Tinkerbell, isn’t it?” he asks, and smiles to take the sting out of the nickname, which he bestowed upon me—God bless him. It’s a reference to the fact that my given name—Gina Suzu Miyoko—is Japanese for “silver bell temple.” At least he didn’t shorten it to Tink.

  “It’s Gina.”

  He smiles again; looks at July. “Hey, Jules.”

  “Hey, Perry. Got a Harley carb on you?”

  “Sure. Didn’t know you had a bike.”

  “Bike’s mine,” I say. “Carburetor’s been sniffling a little. I’m lining up replacements.”

  He doesn’t believe me. “You on a hog?”

  “Don’t say, ‘That’s a lot of bike for such a little girl.’ Last guy did that has tread marks down his back.”

  He grins. “Still the same old Tink—mouth on legs.”

  “You got to be so rude to my paying customers?” Bob asks amiably. “Maybe I should find Miss Miyoko her carburetor.”

  “I’ll do it. What model you got—Softtail?” He’s teasing me.

  I refuse to be riled. “’83 Super Glide II.”

  “You know they make ’em with electronic ignition now,” he tells me as he wanders toward the neat little stucco cottage.

  “Electronic ignitions are for sissies,” I call after him, then turn to Bob. “Spiffy operation you’ve got here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a tidy junkyard.”

  Bob grins. “Why thank you. I pride myself on it. No reason why a place that deals in wrecks has to be a wreck. Orderliness is next to Godliness.”

  “Hey, Bob,” says July, “you have some excitement around here last night? We were out on the porch and saw all your lights go on, dogs going nuts . . .”

  Bob wags his head. “Guess you could call it excitement. Something was messin’ around in the back corner of the lot. ’Coons, I think. I let the dogs out. That pretty much took care of it.”

  “This ought to do you.” Perry has emerged from the cottage-cum-parts shed, holding a Harley carb that looks as if it’s been steam cleaned.

  I buy it, paying less than I expect.

  Sunday we spend at the river, then take in a movie with Lee and July’s entire clan. Monday July has to testify in court, so I’m left to my own devices.

  I intend to check out the Forestry just so I can say I did, but my carburetor is doing more than just sniffling. It has developed the Harley equivalent of a killer head cold. I congratulate myself on having had the prescience to pick up the carburetor, then realize I have none of the necessary tools to install it.

  I nurse the bike into the parking lot of Wray’s Wrecks where deceleration causes it to lapse into a coma. I’m sorely disappointed in my current obereg, which apparently does not cover Harleys. I’ll have to raise this issue with Mom, who assured me it had “good stuff” when she gave it to me.

  Bob pokes his head out of his office with a frown on his face. “That doesn’t sound good,” he says, then recognizes me. “Well, if it isn’t July’s friend. Gina, right?”

  “Yep, and as you can tell, I’ve got a problem. Old Boris here just keeled over on me.”

  He comes out into the yard, wiping his hands on a royal blue rag and flashing a smile. “So, what’s ailing Boris?”

  “He’s in dire need of bypass surgery and I left my scalpels and forceps at home. Got any I can borrow, Doctor Bob?”

  “Sure thing. Lemme set you up.”

  He does just that, while I haul the listless bike into the well-lit garage, which is every bit as neat as the rest of the place. I smell motor oil and Borax, but little of the cold, gritty aroma most garages have.

  As Bob lays out the tools I’ll need, I ask after the local raccoon population. “You have any more trouble with them the last couple of days?”

  He gives me a thoughtful look, the pleats between his brows deepening. “Well now, I’m not sure. That is, I’m not sure about it being coons. You think coons could move one of these old wrecks?”

  “Move one? As in ‘relocate?’”

  “More like disarrange. I like things neat—”

  “Gosh, Bob, I hadn’t noticed.”

  He favors me with a wry grin. “Like I say: orderliness—”

  “Next to Godliness,” I finish. “So someone disarranged some of your cars? Kids playing pranks?”

  He scratches around in his close-cropped hair. “Well, I’d think that, but usually pranksters try to see how much they can get away with. Show off stuff. Not subtle. This was real subtle. Hell, I don’t know if anyone else would even notice.”

 

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