Read Online Highway 61 by David Housewright - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Housewright
Ads: Link
merely make it easier to reach the release lever on the floor between the door and my seat. I pulled the lever. The agent in back of the Cherokee swung the wheel carrier out of the way, opened the rear hatch, and peered inside. The agent in the booth started asking the obligatory questions. “Do you have anything to declare?” I answered directly and succinctly. You do not joke with border guards. You do not behave rudely. You do not complain about the wait, question the procedures, dispute the legality of a search, debate border policy, or demand your rights as a citizen no matter how intrusive the guards might be. You do not rant about the government. You do not wear LEGALIZE MARIJUANA T-shirts. If you are smart you speak only when you are spoken to. For the most part, fear of terrorism has made border guards virtually untouchable. No matter which nation they hail from, they are tiny gods on earth with the power to ruin your vacation or your life with little provocation. So I sat there, with my mouth shut, waiting and watching, until the agent in back of the Cherokee closed the tailgate and returned the wheel carrier to its proper position, the guard in front of the car strolled away, and the agent in the booth returned my passport.
“Welcome home,” he said.
My heart leapt in my chest, and I felt a kind of warm tingling throughout my body. The same sensation had overcome me only once before and under similar circumstances. It was the first time I had left the country, flying down to Jamaica for a couple of weeks. When I returned, a female customs agent at Miami International Airport said the same thing—“Welcome home”—and I felt a moment of almost overwhelming euphoria, even though I hadn’t missed being home at all.
“Thank you,” I said.
I let my breath out. I had been holding it in for a while without realizing it. A few moments later, I was heading south on Highway 61, the border crossing receding in my rearview mirror.
“That went well,” I said.
Then I thought about the cocaine.
“What the hell?”
* * *
Five hours later, I parked the Cherokee inside my garage next to the Audi. I gave the wheel carrier a shake before I left, as if I were daring something to happen. Nothing did. Once inside the house, I set my overnight bag and the carton of donuts on the kitchen table. I gazed out the window to see if the ducks had flown south while I was gone. They hadn’t. The sight of them filled me with both pleasure and disappointment. I was glad that the ducks had seen fit to adopt me. On the other hand, hanging around so late in the year, they were pushing their luck. In Minnesota, winter was always just around the corner.
The clock above my sink read three fifteen. I was anxious to get Jason Truhler off my plate before I saw Nina, so I went to my home office and started making phone calls, although my first call had nothing to do with him.
“For cryin’ out loud,” Clausen said. “They’re ducks. You don’t think they know when to fly south?”
Doug Clausen worked for the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. I had known him since college.
“You said they’d be leaving any day now,” I said. “That was a week ago.”
“It was four days ago, and nothing’s changed. Dang, McKenzie. How come I only hear from you when you’re worried about your dang ducks?”
“I’m just wondering what’s going on.”
“Yeah, you and all the dang duck hunters. I told you, the unusually mild weather has stalled the duck and goose migration from Manitoba all the way to Mississippi. It’s that simple.”
“But what’s caused the mild weather? Is it global warming?”
“I don’t know from global warming. It’s an evolving science, and it’s in its infancy. I do know that it’s an El Niño year, when there’s a warming of the central and eastern tropical Pacific waters, which brings rain to the Southwest and warmer winter weather to the northern
“Welcome home,” he said.
My heart leapt in my chest, and I felt a kind of warm tingling throughout my body. The same sensation had overcome me only once before and under similar circumstances. It was the first time I had left the country, flying down to Jamaica for a couple of weeks. When I returned, a female customs agent at Miami International Airport said the same thing—“Welcome home”—and I felt a moment of almost overwhelming euphoria, even though I hadn’t missed being home at all.
“Thank you,” I said.
I let my breath out. I had been holding it in for a while without realizing it. A few moments later, I was heading south on Highway 61, the border crossing receding in my rearview mirror.
“That went well,” I said.
Then I thought about the cocaine.
“What the hell?”
* * *
Five hours later, I parked the Cherokee inside my garage next to the Audi. I gave the wheel carrier a shake before I left, as if I were daring something to happen. Nothing did. Once inside the house, I set my overnight bag and the carton of donuts on the kitchen table. I gazed out the window to see if the ducks had flown south while I was gone. They hadn’t. The sight of them filled me with both pleasure and disappointment. I was glad that the ducks had seen fit to adopt me. On the other hand, hanging around so late in the year, they were pushing their luck. In Minnesota, winter was always just around the corner.
The clock above my sink read three fifteen. I was anxious to get Jason Truhler off my plate before I saw Nina, so I went to my home office and started making phone calls, although my first call had nothing to do with him.
“For cryin’ out loud,” Clausen said. “They’re ducks. You don’t think they know when to fly south?”
Doug Clausen worked for the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. I had known him since college.
“You said they’d be leaving any day now,” I said. “That was a week ago.”
“It was four days ago, and nothing’s changed. Dang, McKenzie. How come I only hear from you when you’re worried about your dang ducks?”
“I’m just wondering what’s going on.”
“Yeah, you and all the dang duck hunters. I told you, the unusually mild weather has stalled the duck and goose migration from Manitoba all the way to Mississippi. It’s that simple.”
“But what’s caused the mild weather? Is it global warming?”
“I don’t know from global warming. It’s an evolving science, and it’s in its infancy. I do know that it’s an El Niño year, when there’s a warming of the central and eastern tropical Pacific waters, which brings rain to the Southwest and warmer winter weather to the northern
Similar Books
