I was on the road heading north by seven, figuring I should get to Pesquot by around two. That would give me at least a few hours to ask around if anyone had seen Eileen and Megan and about a farm that boasted a barn that looked like Noah’s Ark. I felt a strange calm, despite the fact that I looked in my rearview mirror occasionally. Nothing much to see back there.
As I drove I watched what had seemed quaint and isolated become sparse and desolate. The New England that had seemed Norman Rockwell-esque in the Green Mountains, seemed like a whole different thing as I moved northward into central Maine. I had been here before, but barely remembered it. At one point, as my mind was wandering, I was visited by a fleeting memory of my sister looking around at the Maine countryside and saying, “I don’t think anyone actually lives here. It’s like some national park.”
I made good time, not stopping to eat, and making it to Pesquot around 1:15. The day was fittingly bleak for a dreary New England town; it was cloudy and the entire town was cast in grays and blacks. I stopped on the main street which gave me more of a feel of an old western frontier town than an ancient New England village. An old man sat on the street in front of the one store in the town; I couldn’t see anyone else. Despite clapboard and white picket fences, I expected to see Clint Eastwood wandering down the main street, eyes squinting, settling some old wrong.
The old man gave me a blank look as I walked up to the store. “I’d like to find the glass works,” I told him.
“Most folks do that when they come up here.”
“Oh. It must be a good place to visit.”
“Only place to visit around here.”
“How would I get there?”
The old joke about “can’t get there from here” surfaced in my mind, but I shrugged it off. I was sure that there were a lot of stereotypes about New Yorkers too. The old man sneered. “You thought I was going to say that old joke, didn’t you.”
I smiled. “It popped into my mind. But I don’t know you. Let’s just call it a reaction. I’m tired.”
“Most folks sit there and wait for me to say it. One fellow got real peeved at me because I didn’t. Then he got even madder because I wouldn’t let him take my picture.”
“Tourists,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.
“You’re one too.”
“True. Which way?”
“That way out of town. You can’t miss it.”
“This your store?”
“My Daddy died and left it to me.”
I pulled out the picture. “You seen these two?”
He stared. “Why?”
“I was supposed to meet them back down in the Green Mountains a couple of weeks from now, but I got away from work early and I knew they were going to come up here. The little girl likes glass.”
“Who are they to you?”
“My sister and my niece.”
“You don’t talk about them like they were your sister and your niece.”
“They’re very special to me.”
He shrugged again. “I think I’ve seen them, but if I did it was weeks back. Can’t tell you where they went. Or if they stayed here.”
“That’s okay. I’ll catch up with them later. It’s good to take a drive up here.”
There was a sudden silence and I think that he suddenly had tired of conversation. “You ever hear of a place with a barn in the shape of Noah’s Ark,” I asked quickly.
He concentrated for a moment. “Damned if I don’t remember hearing something like that when I was a kid. But I don’t know if it was something someone told me about or something that was real. Maybe up North. Anyway, it isn’t around here because I’d know about it.”
“That’s okay. They mentioned something about that to me, but I’m not sure if it was a real place.” I was getting good at lying.
He stood up. “Well got to go back in and do inventory. My body doesn’t work the way it used to. I can work about an hour and then I have to take a rest.”
“No hurry so why rush?”
“True enough. And I’m headed to the same place no matter how fast I go.”
“Where’s that?”
“Death.”
“Oh. I guess you’re right.”
“Good day to you.”
“Good day.”
*
The glass works were as I suspected. There were tours, demonstrations of glass making and the obligatory gift shop. Pretty standard. What was worse was that no one remembered either Eileen or Megan. For all I knew they’d never been there or the people I was talking to weren’t working the day they’d come to the glass works.
I sat out in the parking lot of the glass works, feeling suddenly stupid and immensely tired. I was running around with a big flag on my back that said “Shoot me” with all the attention I must be getting. There might be no end to my quest. I might just go on and find myself at a dead end. Looking at it from that perspective, the whole thing seemed stupid and self-indulgent.
I found myself staring again, my mind drifting. I was staring at the glass works and I’d been thinking about…it seemed that I’d been thinking about the squid at Thai Palace on Eighth Avenue. Ten minutes had gone by. Realizing I’d been somewhere else for at least ten minutes, I began to feel the first stirrings of fear, thinking that I was going to lose my edge and become one of those people I’d seen for years in New York who spoke to themselves.
Pushing the thought out of my mind, I drove on.
*
Piedmont was another four hours north and, as it turned out, very close to the Canadian border. The scenery became more barren, more monotonous, and I became a little dazed. After driving for days I was getting punchy; I felt like I was traveling in my own little universe. This impression was reinforced by the fact that there were very few houses or people to be seen.
I ran out of steam a good two hours from Piedmont, driving in the dark. It took far longer to find a motel than it had before and I was exhausted. I had long since stopped looking out my back window. Anyone following me would have been obvious even if I’d looked once every half an hour.
I found myself a cabin at the edge of a cheap motel complex; it was all they had available. I was right near the road which I could see vaguely through the few trees that bordered it. As useless as it was, I still went through my ritual of placing improvised burglar alarms in front of the door and windows of my room. Then I laid back on the bed and fell asleep.
*
I awoke suddenly feeling something was wrong. I lay still for a minute or so, trying to get the feel of the room I was in before I came up against the certainty that someone was there with me. I sat up and saw a vague form outlined against the window. My hand went toward the lamp on the flimsy night table, but then I thought better of it.
“You won’t make it to me with that lamp before I can knock you down.”
I grunted and stared at the ceiling.
“I think you need some advice.”
I digested the words. In the silence that followed I heard the hiss of the occasional car on the road. I wondered if I should simply roll off the bed and provide a more difficult target. “Why did you kill Benoit?” I asked experimentally. Maybe I could shock him into revealing something.
“That’s not the issue right now. The issue is that you need to turn back. You won’t like the outcome if you keep on going the way you’re going.”
“Meaning, you are threatening me.”
I heard a sigh. “Go back to New York. You can’t help anyone.”
I became angry. “There are people I have to help because of people like you.”
“You’re an asshole! Go home.”
“Why are you so afraid of me?”
“Go back. That’s all I have to say. There’s nothing you can do here. You’ll regret it if you keep going.”
“Fuck you.”
I saw a flash of a hooded sweatshirt as the door opened and closed. I lay there and thought about what had happened. A murderer would have kille
d me, but for some reason this person was afraid of me.
So, all I could conclude was that, for some reason, someone didn’t want me dead just at that moment.
*
I didn’t get more than a couple of hours of sleep that night. Somewhere in the night I’d come to a conclusion.
Years before I had owned a gun. I had gone through the training, spent some time at the shooting range, and become a passable shot. But something had always made me uneasy about it. I found that as time went by, I stopped cleaning the gun and eventually stopped my visits to the range.
I had heard all the arguments. Having a gun makes things worse. You have to be ready to use it or someone will turn it against you. I’d had conversations about this with any number of people at bars. It was always a hot button and I’d never decided whether I wanted a gun in my house or not.
It was half fear and half being sleep deprived. But I decided that I was tired of being a sitting duck. If they were going to threaten me, they were going to pay for it.
I knew enough about rural areas to know that getting a gun wouldn’t be such a big deal, though it might attract some attention. Against my better judgment, I knew I was near the end of my quest. I wasn’t sure I cared about an illegal gun possession charge once the whole thing was done.
I pulled out the yellow pages the motel had so obligingly left for me, and found the firearms section. From what I could see, if I backtracked ten miles on the road I’d driven in on, I would find Dave’s Sporting Goods. I’d obviously passed it the evening before. On the way I stopped at the one teller machines in town; I figured cash would be an incentive to sell.
Dave eyed me suspiciously as I walked in; I guessed he was used to seeing people he knew. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like a pistol. I’m up in the area for a little while for vacation and I left my target practice gun at home. I hope you can help me.”
“I have the best collection of pistols in this area. But there are restrictions. A background check, you know.”
I still didn’t know much about guns but I picked out what seemed the best for me: a thirty-eight; I’d seen enough of them carried by police in New York back before they issued better weapons. It would fit in my jacket and wouldn’t be too hard to lift.
This particular model had mother of pearl inlays and an intricate pistol grip. There was a holster, a gun sight, a cleaning kit and a velvet lined case. I’d picked it because it probably was expensive and I figured that was my ace in the hole with Dave.
“How about that one,” I asked, pointing.
His eyes lit up. He tried to hide his enthusiasm by taking a casual drag on his cigarette. “That’s an excellent piece.” He began rattling off statistics: this type of metal, that type of metal treatment, this type of balance, that type of baffling around the chamber. I understood none of it.
“I’m interested. But how long does the background check take?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, looking me in the eye. “That’s not a gun for amateurs, mister. That’s a $650 weapon.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m only going to be here for a couple of weeks. I can’t wait for a background check. And when I leave, I can get a permit back home. The gun’ll go with me.”
“Well we need to follow regulations. I can see that you’re just a weekend shooter. So, if you promise not to load it outside of a shooting range, I guess I can sell it to you."
“Of course! I was going to ask you where the nearest shooting range was. If I could go there today, I’d be happy.”
“You from the city?”
“Boston,” I lied.
“Thought so. Well I know you have to defend yourself in the big city. This is a good gun for that. Why don’t we make it an even six if you have the cash?”
“I can do that. And why don’t you give me some ammunition?”
“No problem.”
We shook hands after the sale. “Good hunting,” he told me as I left his shop.
As I drove off, it occurred to me that the gun might have cost a good hundred less than he charged me.
Chapter Nineteen
I was armed and now I had an illegal gun. That wouldn’t be really wonderful if I was stopped and searched. Somehow, I felt I needed a gun, that all the crap I’d been through for the past six months had been leading me to this moment; me driving to what would probably be the last town on my journey, armed and stupid. Sort of like some lonely kid robbing his first bank a century ago.
I was pretty close to the Canadian border; I could see more and more French names on businesses and mailboxes, some of them Anglicized. I began imagining myself going up into Quebec and losing myself there for a while. It seemed that all this chasing around was going to lead me nowhere and I wasn’t about to go straight back to New York with my tail between my legs. I could see myself living in some little lake town at the foot of the Laurentians, sipping wine and being like someone out of a bad novel from the sixties.
I came back to reality with a start. I’d been driving, flawlessly, but I’d been somewhere else; nothing I’d been thinking made any sense. I looked behind me to make sure there was no one coming and I slowed and pulled off on the shoulder. I opened the window and got the blast of cool air I was looking for. It didn’t do much to clarify my thought processes, but it did make me feel a little more comfortable.
I tried to muster my thoughts in a vain attempt to figure out what was happening to me. I’d heard all kinds of stories about fugue states where people drifted into some altered reality and functioned fully for days at a time. They were due to things like trauma or excessive drinking. Lack of sleep and stress seemed good candidates to bring one on. I could go on and enter a dream world and…
I stared out the windshield and felt my thoughts bounce around my head helplessly before I moved on.
I stopped for something to eat around eleven. As I walked into the small deli I started to slip again. For a moment I was walking through the end of an action movie and I was the star. The people I passed seemed to sense my tragic hero status and part before me. I would look someone in the eye and there would be an immediate understanding of
who I was and what I was doing. The counterman who took my order seemed particularly cowed by me as I ordered a ham and egg sandwich. Things seemed to go in slow motion: the movement of the clock, the counterman’s hands putting together my sandwich.
I shook my head to clear it. The counterman stared at me; he looked like an ordinary person again and I knew that I’d never been Clint Eastwood, though my rough appearance might have scared the shit out of him. I vowed that I wouldn’t let my mind wander into fantasy again.
Piedmont was a surprisingly pleasant town in the middle of general barrenness. It had more of a Green Mountain feel to it than any of the other Maine towns I’d passed through. There was even a town square with a gazebo to lend the town an air of calm laziness. I watched as a couple ate candy bars, presumably on a break from work.
I was exhausted and had pushed myself to get to Piedmont by three. Now I wanted nothing but to get some sleep. I figured on a few hours before I started exploring the town. Anything that wasn’t open that night, I’d hit tomorrow.
I found the Bulwark Arms with no trouble. It was a little Victorian confection right off the town square. I could see that, rather than being the usual yuppie run bed and breakfast, it was a hotel that probably dated from the late 1800’s.
The lobby was pretty empty and the desk manager greeted me with a smile that made me wonder if anyone ever stayed there. “Nice to see you,” he said. I was glad to hear his accent; here was one person that belonged in Maine.
“How are you doing?” I countered, trying my best to take the New York out of my accent. “Seems pretty quiet here. Is it always like this?”
“You’ve hit the end of the slow season. It should pick up in the next couple of weeks. We have the lake, and people want it to be warm when they swim. It stays cold up here for a while.”
>
“I can see that. Well, quiet is fine with me.”
He stared at me. “You okay?”
“Not much sleep and a lot of driving.” I smiled in what I hoped would be a reassuring way.
He nodded, clearly not convinced. “How many nights?”
I took a second to get my bearings and try to clear my head. I had my stories down. All I had to do was repeat them. I took a deep breath, something I hoped he’d see as indecisiveness and not dishonesty. “Hmm...It depends on if I can find my sister. This is one of the places I told her to try to find me right about now. We’re supposed to meet up, but well, she’s never been good about planning. I guess I’ll give it a couple of nights. If she isn’t here...” I shrugged my shoulders.
He looked dubious. “You’re supposed to meet your sister but you don’t know where she is?”
“You’d have to have met her, and her daughter. I think they might have stayed here. If they did then I have a better reason to stay here because it means they’re somewhere around here. My next try is in Canada. She likes games. Like hide and go seek.”
I realized immediately that it all sounded incredibly stupid. What was coming out of my mouth was more sleep deprivation than anything else. The desk manager simply stared at me suspiciously. “I don’t remember anyone who sounds like that. Maybe you need to move on to Canada. You could be waiting here for days.”
I thought I felt waves of fear coming off him and it scared me. “Well you could be right.” I had the picture in my pocket and wondered whether he was going to freak out if I showed it to him. Maybe he was one of them, whoever they were.
I figured I was in so deep, what the hell. “Well you can help me then. If you haven’t seen them, I probably will take your advice. I have a picture of them,” I set the picture on the counter with as much nonchalance as I could muster under the circumstances.
He looked at the picture, looked at me and I could almost see his face setting like concrete. “Don’t know them. Sorry.” He stared ahead, his eyes somewhere a foot above my head.
The Railroad Page 32