Swimming with the Angels
Page 26
I left Burlington one hundred million dollars richer than when I had arrived. The irony was that I could now afford to finish art school but could not do so without endangering not only myself, but the faculty and other students. On the plus side, I might never be able to spend large sums of the money without inviting unwanted scrutiny, but neither would the cartel or anyone else.
***
I opened the door to the truck cab and climbed in. A shaggy head rose from the passenger seat and licked her lips hopefully.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t forget.” I opened the box of dog biscuits and offered Patsy one which she instantly inhaled. “Some dogs actually enjoy chewing them.” After a few more biscuits, it was time to roll.
The engine started with a deep-throated rumble that vibrated throughout the cab. I checked the water and oil gauges followed by a glance at the mirrors, then let out the clutch and pulled out onto the easement road.
I had earned the right to drive the Peterbuilt after passing all the tests and agreeing to the terms for freelance long-haul drivers. It had a bed, a compact refrigerator, a microwave oven, and even a satellite television—all the comforts of home in a space the size of a large closet. It made my previous home in the cabin feel like a mansion.
I merged behind another tractor trailer. A minute later, we were headed north on the I-5, the windows open so Patsy could enjoy the breeze.
We rode in silence, Patsy thinking about food, or whatever dogs think about, and me contemplating regrets, as I often did, and lessons learned as Virgil had advised.
According to the last phone call from Vonda, plans were already being drawn up to convert the trout farm into an exclusive neighborhood of estate homes for the upper-middle-class who continued to flee Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and a hundred other cities where there is too much crime, too many incidents and accidents filling the television and newspapers, too many homeless with their afflictions and addictions, too many lost and angry refugees seeking the promised land, and too little space. It was hard for me to imagine the trout farm turned into yet another cul-de-sac, and I was glad I wouldn’t be around to see it. Nor had I been able to stick around long enough to see Valerie’s body laid to rest. Catania had warned me there wasn’t time.
Do places have memories? Once it became a neighborhood of new homes and families, would the land remember the pastoral beauty of the trout farm, the crowds of people that visited, or the legendary fish called Moses that once lived there?
I passed a Ryder Rent-a-Truck headed north and towing a subcompact. Beneath my sunglasses, I felt my eyes blur for a moment, and I pinched the bridge of my nose to clear them. Once again, I was on my own and not by my own choosing.
I had not loved Valerie in the same manner I had loved Heide. Nor had I been attracted to her sexually like I had been to Vonda. I had not even realized how much I cherished her music, her beauty, and her ability to hear what I was thinking until she was gone and the ache in my heart threated once again to capsize me.
Love was not always about passion or romance. Sometimes, love was having someone committed to standing by you, even when you failed. Even though she knew about my having sex with Vonda, Valerie still gave her life to save mine.
The guy I see in the rearview mirror looks familiar, but not the same. In addition to the long hair, he is a little heavier in the face, filled out in the shoulders and chest. But he rarely smiles. And the eyes. The eyes look haunted.
Valerie said you can’t hide from your fate. I was not sure what I believed in anymore, but I was trying to keep an open mind. If believing in God helped Virgil cope with the loss of his youngest daughter, perhaps it could help me, too. Maybe her mother was right, and Valerie was now swimming with the angels.
Lately, I had begun listening to religious radio programs. I suspected it was part of the loneliness and the search for something to sink roots into, a state that wasn’t listed on any map. On the radio, they called it Grace. It sounded like a place I needed to find, especially now that my Eden no longer existed.
Except to pass a slower vehicle, I stuck to the right lane, keeping one eye on the road and another on the landscape. The warm air tasted of dirt, fertilizer, and sun. A hundred-thousand acres of farmland, already brown, rippled in the noon-heat like the muscles of a reclining dancer, retired from some great, early caravan back when the world was new.
It occurred to me, as I sipped the bitter coffee, that it was a fine day for taking pictures.
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Colin Kersey enjoys writing exciting stories peopled with unique, handicapped characters and their dogs and taking place in colorful locations. His first novel, Soul Catcher, was published by St. Martin’s Press. A former Washingtonian and self-described rainophobe, Colin now lives on a sunny island in Southern California where he is employed as Global PR Manager for a Japanese company. He is a graduate of the University of Washington, Western Washington University and the novel writing program at Stanford University. He is currently working on a third novel.
ABOUT ATMOSPHERE PRESS
Atmosphere Press is an independent, full-service publisher for excellent books in all genres and for all audiences. Learn more about what we do at atmospherepress.com.
We encourage you to check out some of Atmosphere’s latest releases, which are available at Amazon.com and via order from your local bookstore:
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Because the Sky is a Thousand Soft Hurts, stories by Elizabeth Kirschner
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