by Mark Pepper
‘Don’t hurt him,’ Gwen begged.
‘I won’t.’
‘If you don’t bring him back to us ...’ Vincent said, his words laced with impotent threat.
‘Don’t fret none, I will.’
Chuck began retreating through the firs, and John did not need a physical tug or any verbal encouragement to go after him.
The ten-minute climb passed in silence. The track weaved narrowly along the edge of a deep gorge. John gazed down at the sheer drop to his right, but he wasn’t scared. He was simply thrilled to be riding in a genuine American pick-up truck, listening to the V8 grumble under the hood as it powered them up the bumpiest path he had ever traveled. He held onto the door handle with one hand, his Action Man with the other, and he didn’t once think to feel sorry for his parents. Perhaps this might teach them a lesson.
Eventually, Chuck turned off into the forest, picking a familiar route through the firs until they shortly arrived at a small log cabin. John noticed to his right a circle of tree stumps and a large pile of dead and withered branches. Chuck turned off the engine.
‘Welcome to my home, son. Something on your mind?’
‘Why don’t you want to live near people?’
‘No point. Most people got nothing to say worth a rat’s ass – forgive my French.’
‘Don’t you get lonely? I would, I’d hate it.’
Chuck shrugged. ‘You get used to it.’ He climbed down from the truck and slammed the door, then went round to the passenger side and opened it. John hopped out and surveyed the cabin. Compared to the ones in the ghost town, it looked almost brand new. The lumber was fresh, the structure sturdy, the angles sharp and the window glassed in. He glanced at the nearby tree stumps and realized how it had come about.
‘Built it myself,’ Chuck said, seemingly reading his thoughts. ‘When I knew it was God’s will I be up here.’
‘Gosh,’ was all John could say.
Chuck gently snatched him off the ground and sat him on the built-in tool box behind the cab.
‘Now, son, in a moment I want you to go inside. On your own.’
John nodded from his high perch.
‘When you do, I need you to take a good look around. Understand?’
‘Why?’
‘Never you mind. You take a real good look around, then you come out and tell me if you seen anything made you feel ... kinda strange. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, why?’
Chuck held a finger to John’s lips. ‘No answers today. Not today. If I’m right, you’ll find out in due time.’
‘Right about what?’ John persisted as Chuck took his finger away.
‘No good me telling you, John; don’t understand it myself. And maybe I’m mistaken, maybe nothing in it. Might be I’m just an old fool.’ But from his expression he didn’t appear to think so. He lifted John down to the ground and affectionately ruffled his hair. ‘Door’s open. Go on in.’
The cabin was one space with a single window in a side wall. The interior timber had been left in its natural state. John thought some white paint would have lifted the gloom and perhaps made Chuck feel a little more cheerful. He made a mental note to suggest it and began to inspect the place, as instructed.
To the left was a kitchen and bathroom area – a round metal hand basin set on two stacked empty crates. On the plank floor beside it were several large plastic containers of various size and color, which he took to be Chuck’s water supply. Next to them were a couple of cardboard boxes filled with canned foods and provisions. Chuck did his cooking on a camping stove, hooked up to a gas cylinder. In the middle of the room was a table and chair. On the table was a plate, a cup, a set of cutlery, and an old mining lantern, which appeared to be the only light source when the sun went down. To the right was a camp bed, an alarm clock on an upturned crate, and a box of books. There was no wardrobe, only a suitcase pushed under the bed. It all seemed highly impermanent, as though Chuck had not believed he would be there for very long.
And none of it gave John any untoward emotion, except he couldn’t understand how anyone could live so simply. Poor Chuck had nobody to talk to and nothing to do except read. What did he do out here? Did he have a job? John had seen park rangers on his travels but they all wore uniforms and drove official vehicles with fancy crests on the doors. Besides, this was no park, this was a wilderness; you had to get lost just to find the place.
The planks creaked underfoot as he walked the confined space.
‘Something kinda strange,’ he said to himself, eyes flicking from one spot to another. He stopped and studied several items hanging on the log wall at the foot of the bed: a calendar and three framed photographs.
The August scene on the calendar was one John had viewed first-hand: Crater Lake in the Cascade Mountains. The dates beneath were crossed off up to the thirteenth. Today was the fourteenth. He unhooked the calendar and laid it on the bed, wanting to see how many places he could recognize out of the twelve months. He turned to the front cover, to a river scene and a flowery pronouncement: Beautiful Oregon - 1978. He then flipped to January and a snowy Deschutes National Forest.
‘Been there,’ he said, and noticed the dates below the picture. All of them from the first onwards had been crossed off, the same as August. John quickly checked the months in between. Every day of every month had a line through it, like a countdown. He wondered what on earth Chuck had been waiting for all this time, and how many more days he would need to cross off before it arrived. He checked September, October, November and December to see if Chuck had circled a date he was working towards, like Christmas Day on an advent calendar, but they were unmarked. It didn’t make him feel strange, though, only puzzled. He returned the calendar to the month of August and reached it back onto its hook, then began poring over the three photographs.
The first was a black-and-white picture of Chuck as a younger man, arm in arm with a pretty woman in front of a church. John took their clothes and grins as confirmation that they had just been married.
The second was a color shot of a soldier in camouflage uniform, standing against a helicopter with his machine gun. John guessed he was about twenty years old.
The third photograph was also color. A girl about John’s age. She was posing on a beach with the ocean behind her. A toothy smile and dark, mischievous eyes, her face framed by an abundance of fiery red curls. The shutter had frozen the flapping of her dress in the breeze, its white material patterned with a repeating motif of Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse inside a large love heart.
John would have liked to feel strongly about all this if only for Chuck’s sake, but he didn’t. He made a final slow scan of the interior, coming full circle to again face the girl in the Disney dress. Nothing affected him in any way he could describe as strange.
‘Sorry, Chuck,’ he said to the monochrome newlywed on the wall.
‘Nothing?’
John jumped and spun around.
‘You don’t feel nothing?’ Chuck said from the doorway, a weary desperation in his voice.
‘What am I looking for?’
Chuck didn’t answer, simply entered the cabin and sat heavily at the table. He shook his head.
‘Jesus H Christ,’ he growled.
John frowned. He blamed his parents. If they’d bothered taking him to Sunday School he might have known Jesus had a middle name, and what it was. He quietly approached. Chuck was lost in his thoughts and didn’t know he was there, or didn’t bother to register the fact. He sat his Action Man on the edge of the table, angling his joints so he balanced on his own, all the time thinking of names that began with H. He could only think of one.
‘Is it Harry?’ he asked.
Chuck’s head flew round, his face shining with delight.
‘What’s that, son? Is it Harry?’
Confused by this sudden mood swing, John felt he needed to take a step back.
‘I don’t know,’ he said carefully. ‘Is it?’
Having looked
ripe for a screaming hallelujah, Chuck now checked himself as he clocked John’s complete absence of understanding.
‘Is it ... what, son?’
‘Is it Jesus Christ’s middle name?’
‘Is what?’
‘Harry.’
‘Huh?’
‘Jesus aitch Christ.’
Chuck closed his eyes and wilted on his seat.
‘Oh ... I see. No, son, I don’t believe it is.’
‘No,’ John said, ‘I didn’t think it could be.’
The cabin felt dry and airless and John’s energy was sapped by it. He took his Action Man and went to sit on the camp bed. For five minutes he looked around the room, uselessly hoping that he might see something kinda strange so he could announce as much and restore a smile to Chuck’s face. He certainly needed one. He hadn’t moved. His elbows were planted on the table, his fingers clasped beneath his stubbly chin. Every thirty seconds or so he would turn his head slightly and fix John with a troubled, squinting stare, before shifting his gaze a few feet to the wall – the calendar and the three photographs.
John decided he had to say something; it was getting late and he was beginning to feel concerned for his parents’ state of mind.
‘Why have you been crossing all those days off the calendar?’
Either Chuck didn’t hear or ignored him.
John tried again: ‘Who are those people in the pictures?’
Chuck straightened up on his chair, allowing him to remove the Smith & Wesson from his waist. He took the clip from his shirt pocket, stared at the uppermost bullet in the stack for a moment, then inserted it into the gun until it clicked home. He pulled the slide back, exposing a portion of the barrel, and let it spring forward, taking a round into the chamber. The weapon ready to fire, he de-cocked and placed it on the table.
‘Chuck ...?’ For the first time, John was afraid.
‘You did nothing wrong, son, don’t think you did. I’m the one to blame, not you. I reckon I’ve been a fool. I thought the good Lord had smiled on me, showed me a sign, led me into this wilderness for a reason, but it seems I’m just a lonely old man with a head full of stupid ideas.’ He stood up, walked over to the foot of the bed and unhooked the picture of the girl in the Disney dress. ‘Listen, John, I appreciate you coming up here; you were very brave. And be sure to tell your folks I sincerely regret any distress I may have caused them.’ He sat down beside John, creaking and sagging the bed, and began to open the back of the frame.
John watched in silence and gathered this was the item he should have picked out. The photograph was removed and placed in his lap. The flame-haired girl grinned up at him, but still he was unmoved. All he felt was a child’s natural curiosity.
‘Who is she?’ he asked.
‘My granddaughter.’
John continued looking at her image as he suspected he was meant to until Chuck spoke again.
‘Son, when you go, take this picture with you. Will it fit in your pocket?’
‘I’d have to fold it.’
There was no reply, so John glanced sideways and saw Chuck was visibly loath to damage such a treasured possession, regarding the girl’s face with great fondness and equal sadness.
‘I can keep it in my hand,’ John suggested.
‘No, I don’t want your folks seeing it. They’d take it off you and throw it away. No, you’re gonna have to fold it, just … don’t put the crease through her face.’
John nodded, folded it carefully and tucked it in the front pocket of his shorts.
‘Thank you,’ he said politely, although he had no idea why he should want the gift he had just received.
‘Like I say, John, I reckon I’m mistaken. But might be you just don’t know things yet. Time … time may tell. All I ask is that you keep the picture safe. Don’t ever lose it. Keep her safe, John. Promise me.’
‘Okay.’
‘Say you promise.’
‘I promise.’
‘Then I believe you,’ Chuck said, rising to his feet. ‘Now you’d best be getting back. I’ve kept you way too long as it is.’
John stood up and could feel the shape of the photo against his thigh. He knew he had to go but he was worried about leaving Chuck on his own, so when Chuck crossed the room to shove the gun down his waist again, he quickly slipped his favorite toy beneath the top blanket; a little friend to keep his big friend company.
At the door, Chuck produced the keys from his jeans and hooked a finger at John to follow. He didn’t notice the missing Action Man. Together they walked out to the pick-up under the canopy of firs and climbed into the cab.
‘Know what?’ Chuck said, the key poised at the ignition. ‘If I was your pop, I’d have sent your mom back down to the highway, see if she couldn’t flag down a state trooper. Which case, I’m apt to get shot if I take you all the way, and that’s not something you should see. Think you can find your way through the trees if I stop short? I’ll point you in the right direction, you just keep walking.’
‘Okay,’ John said.
‘Got your picture?’
John slapped his pocket. ‘Safe and sound.’
Chuck cut the grumbling V8 as soon as they joined the mountain track. It was steep enough to allow them a coasting ride down, so John thought he was just trying to conserve gas. He imagined these big engines fairly guzzled fuel. Then he noticed how Chuck’s body was canted to the left, his head half out of the window.
‘Chuck –’
‘Ssshhh.’
John shifted to high kneeling and thrust his head out his side. He listened for sirens, thinking Chuck was doing the same. What he heard a few minutes later was his parents, screaming and shouting in the forest below for their offspring to answer them. John instinctively drew a breath to respond, but clamped his mouth shut, recalling that Chuck did not want a confrontation.
The stealthily-rolling truck was already slowing. When they came to a halt, Chuck yanked on the handbrake and turned to face his young passenger on the padded bench seat.
‘Well, son, this is where we go our separate ways. Remember your promise to me: keep my granddaughter’s picture safe. If you are the one, you’ll need it. I’ve done all I’m willing to do. I’m tired. Right or wrong, I ain’t gonna wait another day.’
Hearing this abject surrender, John began to panic. He shuffled on his knees across the seat.
‘But what are you going to do?’
Chuck shook his head, and John saw in his eyes that the gesture did not indicate he was undecided – quite the opposite: he had made a firm decision; he just wasn’t about to share it.
‘Where are you going to go?’ John asked, ridiculously concerned for this relative stranger.
‘I hope some place good.’
‘Come with us. We’re going home soon.’
Chuck laughed, but not unkindly. ‘Reckon your folks might have something to say about that, don’t you? No, John, it’s too late to start over. See, this ghost town and me, we got something in common: we’re still here, but just the shell; the heart died out of us years ago.’
‘Your heart’s good, I know it is,’ John protested, trying not to cry and failing.
Chuck smiled gratefully. ‘Son, I want you to give me a big hug, then you’re getting out.’
John sniffed and blinked to control his sorrow, wrapped his arms around Chuck’s shoulders and squeezed with all his might. Chuck patted his back to soothe him, and John could have stayed like that for hours. Very quickly the driver’s door was released and he was hoisted past the steering wheel and lowered to the ground. The door slammed shut and the engine roared into life, making him jump back, then Chuck reversed into the forest to turn round. In the second before he shifted into first, he grinned at John, raised his left arm and gave a loose salute – a swift flick of his fingers off his eyebrow. John did not have time to respond in kind; Chuck had looked away and was already skidding back onto the track, the huge tires spewing clouds of dirt as they sought traction on the i
ncline.
Love, absent for years, now overwhelmed him. His parents had heard the truck roar off and had come tearing out of the forest to find their son standing alone. Airborne dust had turned the wet tracks on his cheeks brown.
Never mind Chuck and his gun, Gwen nearly killed John with her bare hands, so forcefully did she hug him. Plucked off the ground and held to her bosom, his shoulder became sopping wet with her laughing tears of relief. Vincent threw his arms around them both, a tire iron in one hand. Words soon emerged from their moans.
‘Are you all right?’
‘What did he do to you?’
‘Why are you crying?’
‘Are you hurt?’
‘Where is he?’
The questions kept pouring into his ears from mouths pressed tight against his head.
‘Yes ... nothing ... don’t know ... no ... gone ...’
Then his father was off and running towards the track, makeshift bludgeon in his fist. The dust disturbed by Chuck’s hasty retreat was still settling. The sound of the V8 was fading into the mountainside.
‘Come back down here, you fucking arsehole!’ Vincent yelled into the sweltering blue yonder, shaking the tire iron.
Still hugging John, Gwen screeched over his shoulder, almost deafening him.
‘Vinny! Stop it, you bloody idiot! The man’s got a gun!’
It had the desired effect. Having made his point – which had not impressed his son one little bit – Vincent returned to his family but did not re-join the clinch.
‘Right,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘First thing, get the police up here. John, where did he take you? Could you show them? Gwen, put him down for a minute.’
She did so, but kept hold of John’s hand and began dragging him towards the forest.
‘We can talk about this later, Vincent,’ she said, not waiting for him to follow. ‘I want to get away from this place.’
Jogging to keep up, Vincent continued the interrogation.
‘Where did he take you, John? Can you remember?’
‘Not really.’
‘Did he take you anywhere special?’