Lenny dropped a framed photo of a long-dead beagle, a mug, and a chair back cushion into a cardboard box, turned formally towards the slightly crooked portrait of President Ford, and saluted.  He looked down at his badge, sighed, picked up the box and went out through the office door into the Southern California sunshine. Lenny was headed the wrong way. He’d started in San Ysidro, California where the crossing from Mexico was a giant, ratty sieve, each hour of every day sluicing a torrent of humanity into the U.S. while endeavoring to strain out drugs, gangsters, runaways, fugitives and the unlucky. It was the major leagues and Lenny had labored to make muster. So many procedures. So many rules. Unlike his colleagues, he didn’t measure his success in kilos of drugs found in wheel wells or crates of zucchini, or by the number of rascals he walked away in cuffs. Lenny cultivated alternative points of pride which, deemed by his betters as neither valuable nor appropriate, eventually got him transferred to the Blaine-Peace Arch crossing from Washington to British Columbia. He was damaged property upon his arrival, foist as he had been on a leery cadre of supervisors, and was again found wanting.  After a brief and lightly tumultuous tenure, he was transferred once more, and as was made clear to him on a call from back East, this was the final move; any more trouble and he was out. So, Lenny’s career was proceeding in reverse—from the busiest, most contentious U.S. gateway to the least, by far.

He arrived in the silver Plymouth Valiant he’d picked up in Missoula, motoring slowly up 511 to the very loneliest border crossing in North America. Were it not for the two small port-of-entry buildings staggered like a yin and yang on opposite sides of the road, Whitetail, Montana would simply ease unnoticed into Big Beaver, Saskatchewan. But each day three or four drivers rolled up to one or the other sliding window and justified their desire to enter foreign territory or proclaimed their allegiance to the nation they were hoping to rejoin. Thus, the need for these tiny, prefab monuments to sovereignty, which the wheatgrass and goldenrod arrayed along the roadside considered an arbitrary business; they were never sure which anthem to sing. But Lenny knew exactly which flag to salute. He was a patriot and despite what a few misinformed Chief Patrol Agents might think, he was dedicated to his calling, so his repeated workplace misadventures were upsetting, the transfers galling. He felt his priorities were in order. On the bus to Missoula and the drive to Whitetail, he sustained himself on almonds and grapefruit juice, self-recrimination, and a determination to get this next one right. He had plenty opportunity to mull as he climbed down out of the Rockies, through the Clark Fork Valley—the hillsides flaunting their late autumn golds and coppers—and into the open prairie. He knew what last chance meant: he was twice divorced.

♡

Lenny dragged the wooden barricade off the road and leaned it against the side of the port of entry building, climbed the three stairs, unpacked his mug, his photo, and his cushion, and got to work.

“Well, good afternoon Ms.…Larkin,” Lenny said, looking at the passport just handed up through the window. He gazed a couple times from the passport photo to the face looking up at him from the driver’s window of the lime green Le Car. She was mid-forties with deep brown curly hair piled on top of her head and held with a pencil. Her features were fine and dark. Lenny thought she could be a schoolteacher or a ceramicist. He’d always imagined lives for the people passing through his lanes, getting more specific as a day wore on and the tedium became undeniable. Late in the day in San Ysidro, he might have thought, English Teacher who writes mysteries in the evenings or maker of bowls from green Oaxacan clay. But this was Whitetail, and Ms. Larkin was Lenny’s first customer, as it were, so he couldn’t yet marshal the effort.

“You’re new,” she said matter-of-factly, and cut the engine.

“Indeed, this is my first day. In Whitetail, not in border patrol.”

“Man, what must you have done to get this gig?”

Lenny swallowed hard. “Ma’am, what’s your business in the United States?”

“Visiting a friend. I’ll just be a few hours.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“I live up in Big Beaver.”

“What do you do for work?”

“I make ceramics.”

“Ceramics?”

“You know, clay. Mostly cups, bowls. Sell to folks down here visiting the Badlands. Is that strange? You’re looking at me like I told you I’m a Concorde pilot or something.”

“No, not strange,” he said, composing himself. “Not strange. Your friend lives in Whitetail?”

“Where else? He’s fixing up a barn on Walters Road, Agent…Dawson,” she said, glancing at the tag above his left breast.

“Might as well call me Lenny seeing as we’re going to be doing a lot of business together,” Lenny said, smiling broadly.

“Yes, I suppose we will…Lenny. And as you see, I’m Tali,” she said nodding toward the passport he still had open. He closed the booklet, handed it back, and she threw it onto the passenger seat and started up the Le Car.

“Enjoy your stay in the States, Tali.” She nodded and drove through, the little car sputtering like a 2-stroke lawn tool.

That evening Lenny found himself fighting the urge to drive along Walters Road to have a look at this barn. He’d rented a furnished trailer and was sitting on a threadbare ochre couch sipping a mug of black tea. He was resisting the urge, but with some difficulty; his only distractions in this piddling nowhere were a scratchy radio signal and unpleasant recollection.

“The U.S. Border Patrol is not a social club, Lenny. That’s Mexico right there. You know what kind of sin and devilry we’re dealing with. Focus.”

Focus. Right.  Lenny had picked up a bottle of Crown Royal in Missoula and now fished it from his duffel bag. He added a couple splashes to his tea and settled back onto the couch. Who was this friend anyway? A friend. A friend is fixing up a barn. Lenny took a big sip of tea and closed his eyes tightly trying to rid his mind of these unproductive questions. He stood and paced around a bit, started organizing the spare galley kitchen, and gazed out through the window over the sink. The late autumn prairie appeared vast. The Sun was setting behind low rolling hills way in the distance. The summer grasses were now in shades of burnt orange, russet, and the color of his couch--the untended straw flattened by the winds of a coming winter that even now made faint howlings as they worked their way through faults in the aging trailer. It was a stark landscape though not without its beauty. Alone is a state of mind, he thought. Beyond all probability, I exist. Wherever I was in the Middle Ages, or the Victorian, there shall I return. Just gotta hang in there. After a modest pasta dinner from a can, Lenny got in bed, turned on the reading light and chipped away at Shogun until he finally drifted off.

♡

“Afternoon, Lenny. Settling in?” Tali handed her passport up to the window.

“Kind of you to inquire. You heading into Whitetail?”

“Where else?” she asked, smiling.

Was there something about her smile, though? Lenny had previously noted tiny lines at her eyes’ corners attending her smiles. Were there fewer today? Was this a diminished smile? Just a case of a more relaxed mien based on familiarity? Or was it related to today’s excursion to the U.S.?

“Not sure if I might be in Whitetail until tomorrow,” she said, taking back her passport and waiting a couple beats for a response that didn’t come.  “Not much for chatting today, huh?”

Focus. Lenny allowed her a terse half-smile. “I sure don’t want to take up your time. Enjoy your stay. Be safe.”

Lenny spent the late morning and early afternoon watching the prairie through the sliding kiosk window. He unwrapped the foil from around a turkey sandwich, chewed as slowly as he could, and watched two hawks prowling the airspace over a parcel of sagebrush in the middle distance.

Tali Larkin was born in Toronto 46 years ago to a Jewish mother--a professor at U of T specializing in decorative arts, and an Irish father--a sometime poet and fulltime accountant. She left school to follow her then boyfriend to Finland, learning to throw pots from an old lady in Vaasa. After falling out with the boyfriend, she worked her way back waiting tables and landed at her parents’ who were mystified by her meanderings. Out to Saskatoon to finish her degree, but shortly following another boy who was leaving to cook at a hotel down in Bengough. He split for the U.S., so she got a place down in Big Beaver and set up her wheel…or so Lenny imagined. Her passport didn’t report any of this, of course. The hawks had killed something, and he considered them a while as they stood in the brush with their quarry, looking nervously around to see if anyone cared.

That night Lenny lay in bed feeling unfocused. He closed Shogun and returned it to the shelf behind his head. It was a beautiful smile, but was it diminished? Had things soured at the barn? Come to think of it, her hair was in a ponytail today. Like she was bracing herself by gathering it together and fastening the end with a red rubber band. She had it all relaxed yesterday--piled up with a pencil. Relaxed like. He turned off the reading light, his feeling of unease deepened by the rickety creaks dancing along the length of the trailer as it was buffeted and rocked by the late autumn winds now gusting unopposed day and night across the northern plains.

♡

On a Thursday morning Lenny was watching his counterpart at the Canadian control point across the way. The agent there was talking to a couple outside their camper van and Lenny was trying to discern from body language if there was a problem. He was thinking they might be coming up from Texas, maybe escaping a cult or starting a new branch of one in the Canadian Prairies. Probably Jesus freaks. Were they shut down in Texas for some unspeakable thing and now on the run to Canada? Just as he was thinking the F.B.I should have coordinated with Canadian officials to snag these miscreants at the border, his attention was stolen by a maroon Datsun 280z zipping down 34 towards him. It slowed but still approached more speedily than he would have preferred, and stopped at his window.

“Good afternoon, sir. Passport please.”

“Welcome to Whitetail,” the man said, smiling up from the driver’s window. “Are you permanent or just filling in a while?” he asked, handing over the little blue booklet.

“Lenny looked up from the passport. I am assigned here for now. Mr. Cline, how long were you in Canada?”

“Just overnight.”

“Overnight?”

“Yeah. Up in Big Beaver.”

“And where you headed?”

“Whitetail. I have a place on Walters Road. We’re sorta neighbors I guess,” he said, smiling.

Walters Road. The friend? California plates. “What do you do here in Whitetail?”

“Well, my day job is finance, which I conduct by phone, but I’m fixing up a barn at the moment. A dream of mine come to life I guess.”

“I see. And overnight in Big Beaver. Business or pleasure?”

“Visiting a friend. But you could say pleasure is my business.” He smiled grandly.

Lenny did not return the smile but cocked his head slightly as he considered the man’s face-- framed as it was by the Datsun’s window. Jake Cline was 57 with all his hair, temples shot through with silver. Effortlessly handsome, he dimpled when he smiled—which was a lot—and seemed the type to grow more distinguished without losing his looks as he moved through middle age. Lenny associated this phenomenon with privilege--conferring as it does a life with below average stress and worry.

“Welcome back to the U.S.A., Mr. Cline,” he said, handing back his passport.

He started up the Datsun and looked at Lenny for a moment as if he was going to take one more stab at charm but thought better of it in favor of a perfunctory grin. He shifted into gear and purred off to the south.

Am I permanent? What kind of question is that? What, who is permanent? And that car? Please. Finance by phone? California? About as believable as a goombah in a track suit importing Roma tomatoes. I’ll have to keep an eye on this one.

♡

Lenny sat at the Formica dining nook in his trailer nibbling on a French bread pizza and sipping Crown Royal from a chipped coffee mug. He had this ticklish feeling in his chest that told him when something was just not right. Not adding up. Why is a California finance guy fixing up a barn in the back of beyond? And happens to have a Canadian girlfriend just across the border? Whatever it is, is Tali in on it or a patsy? Lenny was not a simple passport checker. He was a U.S. law enforcement officer whose sacred duty was to secure the border from threats to the United States and assure the safe passage of foreign nationals into our republic. Was Tali safe? Lenny needed more information.

The Valiant crawled in low gear down the dirt of Walters Road. It was twilight. Lenny had the beams off and slowly rolled down the driver’s side window. He closed his eyes a moment and breathed in the sweet, grassy air cooling rapidly in the gathering dark. Passing dilapidated barns beyond fixing, the occasional piece of rusting farm equipment, he kept quietly rolling on until, rounding a bend, he noticed a faint light ahead glowing out from two giant windows where the double doors of a big red prairie barn had been. Bingo.

♡

“Afternoon Lenny.” Tali had on sunglasses and her hair under a kerchief like a movie star in a convertible.

Sunglasses. Shiner? “Afternoon, Ma’am. Can you remove your glasses, please?”

“Oh, Lenny. Surely you know me by now,” she said, pulling down her shades. Her smile was back to full—the normal number of lines framing her non-black eyes. “I know you’re just following regulations, and before you ask, I’m headed into Whitetail.”

“How long do you intend to stay in the U.S.?”

“You know Lenny, I might play it by ear. Definitely less than 90 days,” she said, laughing. Here, I brought you something.” She handed up a shiny glazed mug with the stars and stripes painted across one side and a maple leaf across the other. His eyes softened. “And before you tell me you’re not permitted to accept gifts, this is not a gift. Consider it a bilateral initiative to enhance the smooth operation of our border crossing. Caffeine equals alert equals secure,” she said smiling. “I threw it in Saskatchewan, but the clay’s from Montana, see? Bilateral.”

Lenny nodded with a tight, miserly smile and placed the mug to the side. Tali replaced her specs, put the Le Car in gear and rattled off towards Whitetail.

♡

“Sonofabitch.” Lenny was back in the trailer sitting on the beat-up couch and sipping Crown Royal out of his new mug. He studied the thing, turning it slowly in a beam of early evening sunlight that was sneaking through a porthole window over the couch. There were slight imperfections that indicated it was handmade, but otherwise offered no clues. I’ll be a sonofabitch if that wasn’t a cry for help. Alert? Secure? What is going on in that barn? Lenny rocked himself off the couch and went to the cupboard, surveying the array of cans on the bottom shelf, the hard taco shells on the middle, and a jumble of god-knows-what all left by prior occupants on the top. He harumphed and closed the cabinet, grabbed the Crown Royal, and offered himself a generous pour. He slipped into the dining nook and pulled a legal pad towards him. He’d been monitoring the days and times Tali and Barn Man (as he’d begun thinking of him) made their crossings, and now added some notes. Looking for patterns. For clues. Piecing it together. This could be big. This could be my ticket back to San Ysidro. At this point the only questions left were what exactly was going on and if Tali was part of it or a victim. Lenny was in his civvies by this point, and he dropped his badge into the pocket of his flannel shirt and fastened the belt holstering his service revolver over his corduroys.  He was a bit unsteady, but passable for driving on country roads, he thought.

Just before the Valiant reached the bend, he cut the motor and let it drift into the grass off the side of the road. He took a deep breath and quietly got out, closing the door gingerly behind him. There was enough Moon to see in front of him, but not so much that he would stand out. He planned his approach. He had to cover about fifty yards with no cover to get to a bank of scraggly hedges about twenty feet in front of the large windows. He moved with purpose but no extraneous motion. He crab-walked the last fifteen yards and crouched behind the least spindly bush then raised his head up very slowly. The light inside was warm and bright. His gaze moved from sheets of drywall leaning against studs on a far wall to a couch covered in a drop sheet. Towards the back of the large open space was the kitchen. Tali was sitting on a stool at the island with her back towards him. Her hair was free of the kerchief and a glass of red wine sat before her. Barn Boy (demoted) was on the opposite side of the island leaning towards her on his elbows, his hands wrapped around a tumbler. A covered pot on the stove emitted wisps of steam at intervals. Lenny moved quietly around to the side of the barn where an outbuilding sat with a padlock latched suspiciously across its door handles. He had brought a pen light and shone it through the side window. Buckets and cans of various sizes. Boxes. His training had included identifying the components of bomb and drug production and the hairs behind his neck were definitely standing at attention.

He needed a better look at that “kitchen”. There was a window on the side that gave directly into the stove area, and he tiptoed towards it. He could see Barn Boy stirring the pot, and Tali was leafing through a magazine from her perch. As Lenny shifted to improve his angle, his foot hit something, gently knocking it against the siding. Crap. Barn Boy turned directly towards him and laid down his spoon. Lenny spun and flattened himself with his back against the barn, his hand instinctively on his revolver. He heard a door open and dropped into the grass, pressing himself against the wall. Showtime? He was ready and he knew he could do what was needed, but his heart raced, nonetheless. His eyes were trained on the corner of the house, waiting. But no one appeared. After a minute the door opened and closed again, and he could hear their voices through the siding. I’ve seen enough. Suspicious in the extreme. He crept away from the barn and retraced his steps back to the Valiant.

♡

Lenny was back on the couch. He had his stocking feet on the coffee table next to the legal pad, the bilateral initiative mug in hand. Sonofabitch, I knew something was up. Who needs a padlock in Whitetail? he thought, gesturing in an arc with the mug. A half-finger of Crown Royal dolloped onto the legal pad causing ‘Is she even really Canadian?’ to bleed badly. He put the drink down on the table, and remembered he hadn’t had dinner. I’ll get to it. You see this is what they don’t appreciate. The eye. The suspicious eye. The skeptical eye. Is it about rules and regs, or keeping us safe? A wee nap, then I’m making a plan. San Ysidro, ya voy! Lenny swung his legs onto the couch and laid his head on the tatty ochre arm. The Crown Royal had continued its journey through Lenny’s legal pad notes and had just about reached, ‘Barn Boy won’t get away with it,’ when it too ran out of steam and retired for the night.

♡

“Afternoon, Ma’am. Passport please.”

Tali pulled the sunglasses down to the end of her nose. “Where’s Lenny?”

“Who?”

“Lenny. What happened to him?”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I just arrived yesterday, and I sure don’t know any Lenny. What’s your business in the United States, please?”

“Lenny was here before you. I just saw him myself two days ago.”

“Two days ago? Ma’am this crossing has been closed the last three weeks due to staffing. They pulled me out of Michigan to open’er back up.” He gestured to the side of the building where Tali could see the makeshift wooden barrier leaning against the wall, deep drag marks visible in the dirt leading from the road. He asked her a few more questions and handed back her passport. Tali accepted it numbly and pushed her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose. The Le Car clattered back to life and started forward then stopped. Tali pulled off her glasses and craned her neck to see past the bemused agent and into the kiosk. She could just make out her maple leaf on the mug sitting off to the side. Not bothering to explain herself to the increasingly bewildered man, she turned back into her seat and guided the Le Car onto the road, where it was jolted suddenly by a gust from the east. She stopped, took a deep breath, and gently tapped the dashboard as if to assuage the little Renault’s anxiety about the coming winter.  As she rolled slowly down 511 towards Whitetail, she noticed two hawks above and angled her head slightly to watch them ascending together in a spiral like two biplanes locked in combat over Flanders.

♡

June 7, 2025