by Dan Kolbet
“Ma’am, like I said, if you had been here when it was done, we would have left it waiting out front, but you were not here, so we parked it,” Melvin said. “It’s only down the way two blocks, safe and sound.”
Frankie’s expression showed annoyance with both the customer for not understanding the shop’s decision, and with Melvin who could have easily rectified the situation by just retrieving the vehicle for the customer, no questions asked.
Harold didn’t think twice about offering to help.
“Frankie, I’d be happy to help,” Harold said. “I’ve got my boots on and the snow doesn’t bother me. How about I go and grab the vehicle for you?”
The customer didn’t wait for a response from Frankie, or question if the boy standing in the lobby was someone trustworthy of her vehicle. She handed Harold the keys with no hesitation.
Frankie even smiled, impressed with his future employee’s initiative.
Harold got the vehicle’s description—a maroon 1962 Buick Skylark with a white vinyl top—its location, and raced out the door, with no plans on returning to the shop once he found it. A car with new snow tires would do just fine for what he needed.
The vehicle was parked as promised a few blocks down a snowy side street. He pressed his thumb onto the chrome handle, opened the door, sat in the driver’s seat and waited. He waited for the feeling of something changing. What would his actions do to the past, or what he saw now as his new future? He’d made it to the car, but nothing had happened. Maybe he could get away with it. Maybe the universe was telling him it was OK.
Harold inserted the key into the ignition and turned. Nothing. But when he grasped the three-on-the-tree gear shift, it happened.
His knees felt weak and his body tingled. Damn it.
Harold goes to the hospital to see Gail after the two buses crash. She’s hurt badly. He’s panicked when he can’t find her. A beautiful nurse named Ruth calms him. Harold getting arrested for stealing a car. His college denying his return. No job waiting for him at Frankie’s. His love of cars, gone. Harold in an Army uniform, holding an M-16 rifle inside a muddy ditch in Vietnam. Jungle for miles and miles. A picture of Ruth in his breast pocket. A girl friend who would never become a wife. Then there was nothing. The new memories ended there.
Stealing the car hadn’t prevented the bus crashes at all, and it sent him to die in a war halfway across the world.
Harold yanked the keys out of the ignition with such force that he flung them across the car, onto the passenger seat. No, that couldn’t happen. He couldn’t die in Vietnam.
He stepped out of the car, hoping to distance himself from the future he’d just created. He hadn’t even gone through with it yet. Why would this change it? The car was still parked, he could still return it to the shop and hand over the keys. He could undo it. But it was too late.
He waited for his old memories to inch back into his brain, but it wouldn’t happen. In moments, the life Harold knew was gone. And for all that Harold knew, it had never happened. Gone was his long life with Ruth, college degree and his career at Ford. Replaced with an enlistment in the Army and a short life ended on a jungle battlefield. It had always been this way. No other options existed.
He would never know how much this one decision had cost him.
One other faint, but significant memory crept into his mind as he stood, keys in hand, shaking in the snow. He was wearing a green Army uniform. Gail, paralyzed from the waist down, waving goodbye to him from her wheelchair. Gail had survived the crash, but was unable to walk.
If he took this path, he could save his sister’s life. And if he could somehow get her off that bus, she could walk again, too.
He got back in the Buick and drove away.
Chapter 8
The city roads were sloppy, but passable. A plow wouldn’t likely touch them for hours as the unrelenting blizzard continued to accumulate snow. Harold’s stolen ride had one significant benefit, new snow tires recently installed at Frankie’s. He drove as quickly as he could. He couldn’t risk an accident now that he had a way to get to the bluff and stop the buses from going down the treacherous roads.
As he drove, Harold thought about his life and his death—the only life and death he knew of.
He met so many friends in the Army who traveled to South Asia with him. His platoon sergeant, Matty Kemps from Ohio, and Grant Flynn from Texas. They were together for every day of their deployment to Vietnam. Harold knew he never made it back home, but not the circumstances of what happened. It just went black. He remembered the white cloudy room and the man in the tank top telling him that he had a choice, but what choice was there to make? Of course he wanted to go back and live another day, his life had been cut so short. He never even got to propose to his girlfriend Ruth, who promised to wait for him until he came back from the war.
Ruth. Today was a big day for their relationship. In fact, it was the first day of it. He’d meet her for the first time at the hospital when he went to find Gail. Ruth’s dark hair was pulled back tight under a white nurse’s cap. Her kind voice stayed with him. It was a voice that carried him through so many nights in the jungle, thousands of miles away from home and a sane world. He thought of her every waking moment until the end. He longed for her, more than anything in the world.
There will be time for Ruth, he told himself, as he ascended the roads up Beacon Hill, which led to Heritage Bluff. The road was narrow and wound through many small farms that grew apples and berries in the summers, and pumpkins and squash in the fall. Harold’s Buick made new tracks in the white blanket that covered the twisting dirt roads. The car’s wipers had trouble keeping the windshield clear. Harold stopped twice to bang the accumulated snow off the wipers, just so he could see clearly, or at least clearly into the blinding torrent of white. It was no wonder the buses had so much trouble in these conditions.
Harold was forced to stop a third time when a pile of snow slid off the Buick’s vinyl roof, completely covering his vision. He had yet to even get to the cliff edge, where the buses would crash in less than an hour. When clearing the windshield, he lost his footing, thanks to the layers of ice hidden under the fresh snow. He landed hard on his side, knocking the wind out of him. A terrible pain shot through his ribs and back as he dusted himself off and returned to the driver’s seat, wet and cold. He pressed the accelerator, but instead of inching forward, the car failed to find traction and crept backward diagonally toward the shoulder. The back two wheels spun in vain, as the motion dragged the car further into the shoulder.
He got out to examine the situation, careful this time not to slip on the compact snow and ice below the new snow. The car was now teetering on the edge of the road, which led to an irrigation ditch for a nearby fruit farm. If he continued to spin the wheels, the car would certainly slide into the ditch.
Harold dug out the front tires with his bare hands, clearing as much snow as he could manage before his hands burned with cold. He checked the trunk and found nothing of use, not even a tire iron. He snapped branches off a tree and wedged them under the back tires for traction. If he could pull the car out from the shoulder, he could keep driving, being more careful this time to stay in the center of the road, and not stopping on any sloping sections.
He gently pressed the accelerator and heard bits of wood and chunks of ice smash into the wheel well, but the car didn’t budge. The tires spun freely.
Harold cranked up the heat and rubbed his hands together to bring back the feeling inside his numb fingers, as he contemplated his next move. The world around him was white. He remembered just a few years earlier, playing in the snow with Gail in the park across the street from their house. Despite their age difference, the two enjoyed each other very much. Playing out in the snow was one of Gail’s favorite things to do.
Harold would make Gail a massive mountain of rolled snow. He’d press the compact snow together and use a shovel to hollow out a cave for her to crawl through.
“Make it bigger! Make it bigger!”
She would yell as he sweated through his wool cap to build her snow cave. “I want to sleep in there tonight.”
“I’m fairly certain that Mom won’t let you sleep in your snow cave tonight,” Harold replied.
“Fine, then I will ask Dad.”
“That is much more likely.”
Once inside the cave, Gail would ask Harold to tell her a secret for her diary. She would pull a small hardcover diary and snub nose pencil from her petticoat and write notes—or secrets—as she called them. She carried the diary with her everywhere she went, so no one else could see it.
“Secrets, hmm? Let me think,” Harold said. “OK, got one. This is a good one. Mom bakes more chocolate chip cookies than she tells us about.”
“Harold, that’s not true! I watch her.”
“Yes, it is true,” he said. “She fills the cookie jar, but there are always leftovers. She puts them in the cupboard above the stove. There is a round, yellow Tupperware container with a clear lid up there. That’s where she keeps her extras.”
“Why doesn’t she put them in the cookie jar?”
“Because you eat them too fast!” Harold said, tickling her sides so she squealed in delight, kicking her feet out and bringing down the top of the makeshift igloo. Harold would rebuild the snow cave and the two of them would stay inside it until it got dark and their mom called them inside.
Harold let the memory of his sister wash over him. Once the warmth returned to Harold’s body, he let his thoughts again return to the task at hand. He exited the Buick, ready to push the car, but heard in the distance a revving engine, and the scraping of snow. He peered into the snowstorm and saw a tractor with a plow blade moving back and forth across a roadway that led to a small farmhouse at the base of the bluff. Rows and rows of apple trees surrounded the road.
Harold quickly raised and waved his arms over his head to gain the tractor’s attention, but pulled them back down in retreat from the pain of his bruised ribs and stiff back. He wouldn’t likely be seen at this distance, not with the snow and orchard trees blocking the view.
On a lark, he honked the car’s horn repeatedly. After a moment, the tractor stopped moving and a man in coveralls and a flannel jacket exited, but he quickly climbed back into the cab of the tractor. Harold couldn’t see the path from the driveway. The snow was too deep. The tractor drove down and away from Harold, and was quickly out of sight around a bend in the road. Harold, with little other option, hiked up the road to flag down the tractor.
He’d walked only a short way before the massive beast of a tractor roared around the bend and nearly ran Harold off the road.
“Kid, what n’ the world are you doing out here?” the man asked. “It’s a dang blizzard. And with this little Buick? Son, you need yourself a truck if you want to get around these parts.”
“Sir, I know, I didn’t have any other option,” Harold said. “Do you think you could pull me out?”
“Pull you out? Onto the road? What good is that going to do you? You’re just going to be right back in that ditch as soon as you get going again. I don’t have time for all that. This road only gets steeper as you go.”
“I need to get to Cider Farms,” Harold said. “It’s very important and I need to get there now.”
“Well, you are not going to make it in that thing,” he said, leering at the Buick. “And besides, I ain’t helping nobody that works for those clowns.”
The man turned and walked back to his tractor.
Harold spun a yarn as quick as he could.
“Sir, it’s my sister,” he said. “She’s on a class field trip. She fell out of the sleigh ride and hurt her arm. They think it might be broken. I need to go pick her up and take her to the doctor.”
“It’s just like those low-lifes at Cider Farms,” he said. “They got trucks up there, don’t they? They coulda brought her to the hospital and met you there. Those no good cheats.”
Clearly this farmer had some bones to pick with the people at Cider Farms. Harold wasn’t about to lose that advantage.
“That’s right,” Harold said. “And they won’t even plow the road down, so the buses can safely navigate those hairpin turns. Do you think you could take me up there and maybe drop your blade on the way?”
“This old farm tractor’s not for plowin’ somebody else’s roads. I have enough trouble with it in my fields,” he said. “I can take you up, but we ain’t going up the road, not if you want to get there today. Hop in.”
Harold climbed into the seat next to the man, a seat meant for only one occupant. The tractor lurched forward, but held onto firm ground. Harold needed to get the road cleared for the buses, but at the moment his focus was on Gail. He had to stop her from getting on the bus. He could think up some way to prevent the accident and save the rest of the children when he got up there.
As they rode through the orchard roads, getting farther away from the Buick and Harold’s only known path to the top of the bluff, he wondered if he had just made a monumental error in trusting this stranger to get him to his sister. He hadn’t felt that tingling feeling like anything had changed, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t have walked up, not in this snow.
Over the thumping sputters of the tractor engine, the farmer introduced himself as Edgar Dawson, of Dawson Orchards. The orchard held five different varieties of apples and a small section of peach trees as well. Edgar’s feud with Cider Farms and its owner William Bartram had to do with undercutting the price of crops several years ago.
“We used to be partners with that farm,” he said. “Shared nearly everything: tools, labor, access over the canal. But now? Don’t even get me started on them.”
Harold didn’t want to get in the middle of this farmer’s squabble, so he kept quiet, although the rumble of the engine was so loud, he wasn’t sure if Edgar even noticed.
The road that bisected the orchard was flat and wide. The large tractor tires easily cut through the snow. They climbed a long gentle slope and crossed an irrigation canal using a land bridge. Harold expected a tricky climb given the elevation gain, and the hairpin turns of the road, but the orchard land had been carved and flattened years ago for maximum growing potential.
“Right here,” he hollered. “This is where I cut ‘em off. They used to pull water from this canal, but no more. They had to put in a well. Cost them a pretty penny. No more crossing into my orchard either. Let ‘em drive around. Cheats.”
Edgar’s tractor rumbled to a stop on what looked like the main road. They had taken a shortcut up the backside of the bluff, through the orchard, avoiding the main road and its hairpins entirely.
“This is your stop. Kid,” he said. “I can’t take you up there any farther. Not if ole’ Bartram still has the scope on his hunting rifle.”
Harold looked at Edgar with astonishment.
“Oh, no son,” he said. “It’s me he’d take a pop shot at. You’ll be fine.”
“But I need to go to the farm,” Harold said. “My sister?”
“Just scamper up the road here a bit, the North Pole is right there. Maybe they’ll let you see Santa, too,” he chuckled.
Harold peered through the driving snow and could just make out the outline of a large barn. Edgar didn’t wait around for a reply. He shifted the tractor into reverse and performed a three-point turn before driving away.
“Good luck,” Edgar yelled over his shoulder. “You’re gonna need it with those cheats!”
But Harold didn’t hear him. He was already halfway to the barn in search of his sister.
Chapter 9
The Cider Farms North Pole was a storage barn packed high with wooden apple crates. The farm cleared out the front section behind the large double doors and rolled in a large Santa throne painted red and gold. A plastic Christmas tree sat nearby, with tag-less packages wrapped underneath for decoration. White, red and green lights hung inside the dimly lit barn. The kids would line up along the wall until they were called forward by a woman in a green elf hat. I
t was not exactly a memorable North Pole, but the whole enterprise was based around a child’s belief in the magic of Christmas, so it did just fine.
As Harold approached, a rickety wagon, pulled by two horses adorned with bells, rolled up to the barn and off-loaded a group of children. Harold followed as they raced inside to line up.
He scanned the line of children looking for Gail. He couldn’t help but also wonder which of the children might be victims of the bus crashes he had yet to prevent. How many families would be forever changed today with the death of their precious fourth grader? As he walked the line, several of the children recognized him as the lunatic who yelled at their bus driver in the school parking lot that morning.
Soon the children were chanting, “Bus crash! Bus crash!” And pointing at him.
Other than Santa and the woman in the elf hat, there were no adults inside the barn. The chanting drew the attention of the elf.
“What is going on here?” she demanded, then under her breath to Harold, “this is supposed to be a magical visit to see Santa and you’re ruining it.”
“I’m just here to find my sister,” choosing not to explain the unexplainable circumstances for this need.
“Well, I need you out of here,” she said. “The kids are acting strange and the chances of them throwing up or peeing on Santa back there is much higher when they get agitated. What’s your sister’s name?”
“Gail.”
“No, last name,” she said, annoyed. “You know, the Nice list? We go alphabetical so the big guy gets it right. Have you never been to the North Pole?”
“Emery,” Harold said.
She turns to a girl in line.
“What’s your last name, sweetie?” she asks, the surly elf attitude in full effect.
“Wendy Tremain,” she said. “For Christmas, I want a—”
“Save it for Santa, kid,” she said, then returned to Harold. “If we’re on the Ts, your sister has already visited this magical barn of wonder. She’ll be back in the cider-processing barn drinking up all our free hot chocolate.”