Invasion of Privacy

nodded.
    The woman’s face broke into the warm smile again. “Well, we can’t turn you away ‘hungry,’ so to speak. One minute.”
    I didn’t hold her to the minute, and in fact it was five before she came back to me. “Oh, I’m afraid this student transferred.”
    “To Boston University ?”
    “Yes. But we still have her application to us. State resident back then.”
    I read through the pages. “Lana Stepanian” gave as an address “ 121 Nez Perce Street , Cedar Bend, Idaho,” the same as on the transcript I’d already seen. Listed as next of kin were “Nibur and Ellen Stepanian.” Her personal statement was an essay about how she wanted “to study Spanish and become a teacher in a big city like Boise .” None of it made any sense.
    “Something else I can do for you?”
    I looked up. “Yes. Where’s Cedar Bend?”
    “Down by Lusston.”
    “Lusston?
    “L-E-W-I-S-T-O-N. Lusston. It’s across the Snake from Clarkston. Get it?”
    “Lewis and Clark?”
    The warm smile.

    Her directions took me south of Moscow on Route 95 and eventually to the crest of an incredibly steep grade with a big sign saying LEWISTON HILL: THE FIRST CAPITOL. On the downslope, smaller signs indicated spurs functioning as RUNAWAY TRUCK RAMPs. At the bottom of the grade was a broad, slow river that might have been the Snake.
    Turning here and there, I saw the CEDAR BEND arrow the registrar woman said I would. The town itself was small and dusty, middle-aged men appearing to be Native American standing next to dinged and rusting pickup trucks, talking and laughing quietly. They were tall, with husky upper bodies running flabby at the belt, their legs both skinny and bowed in blue jeans.
    I pulled up to a man with a wispy moustache under a broad, sun-scarred nose and a cowboy hat tilted back on his head, the shaggy black hair tumbling onto his shoulders. He was talking to a kid of sixteen or so who looked enough like him to be a cousin. Despite the chill in the evening air, the younger one was dressed in baggy jeans and a basketball singlet, his hair shorter and pulled back into a ponytail.
    “I wonder if you can help me.”
    The older man said, “Might be.”
    “I’m looking for ‘ Nez Perce Street .’ ”
    The younger one said, “We’re called ‘ Ness Purz.’ ”
    My day for being corrected. “Sorry.”
    The older man pointed with a tattooed index finger. “Southeast.”
    “How far?”
    A shrug. “Guesstimation, mile or so.”
    “There a sign?”
    Deadpan. “I can’t remember, right offhand.”
    The kid grinned, but said, “You’ll see an old filling station, just a pump sitting all by itself. Another fifty yards, on your left.”
    “Thanks.”
    I drove southeast, saw the shell of a filling station with the pump as described, and shortly thereafter a left. No sign, but I took it.
    In the growing darkness, it was hard to make out numbers, but one soul kept a light on above the doorway of 97, so at least I knew which side of the street to watch. After a few more internally lit houses and a vacant lot, I saw 125 and pulled over. Backing up slowly, I tried to find a number on the home before the lot. It looked like 117. Which would make the empty space 121, the address on Lana Stepanian’s application and transcript. Not great news.
    Leaving the sedan, I walked up the path to the house— more a bungalow, really—before the lot. A dog started barking, and I was almost at the porch steps when my eyes focused well enough to be sure I’d seen correctly from the car. The numerals next to the screened door were 1-1-7, no question.
    A man’s silhouette appeared behind the screen, his head turning to hush the dog, who stood down to a low, throaty growl. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t need it.”
    “I’m not selling anything, but I would appreciate talking with you.”
    “About what?”
    “The vacant lot. Number 121, right?”
    “Not for sale.”
    I moved up to the door, the dog going from the low growl to a woofing. “I’m not interested in buying, either.” The man, maybe sixty-five or so, with sharp features, hushed the dog again. “What’s your business, then?”
    “My name’s John Cuddy. I was looking for some people named Stepanian.”
    “Oh.” He shook his head, slowly and sadly. “Well, that’s too bad. Maybe you’d best come in, sit a while.”

    He’d shaken my hand as Vern Whitt, then bade me take a chair that wasn’t covered by dog hair. In better light, Whitt’s own