by C. G. Cooper
By now I’d passed six motels, some newly renovated and some showing their age. I ignored them all and stepped to the edge of the sidewalk and pulled a quarter from my pocket.
Heads I swim and tails I keep walking.
I flipped the coin over a couple times, and was just about to toss it in the air when a pitiful honk caught my attention. Looking back the way I’d come, I saw the battered pickup of the pastor (I figured he was a pastor because he didn’t talk like any priest I’d ever met), and the guy’s left arm was waving to me out the window.
I clutched the quarter in my fist and waited for the truck to stop.
“I guess you decided against the Seabreeze,” the guy said.
“Thought I’d keep walking, get some fresh air.”
The pastor nodded, like he was concerned about my decision.
“I’ve got a couple deliveries to make, but if you’re up for it, we’ve got a small guest room at our church. I wouldn’t mind calling ahead and having my daughter change the sheets for you.”
“I’m not one of your charity cases,” I said. “I have money.”
The pastor didn’t look offended.
“I know that. It’s just that I hate to see you have to pay for a room, dinner and breakfast. I was new to this town once, so I know what it’s like to keep shelling out cash. You’re just lucky you passed through in the off season.”
He was trying to be nice, I could see that, but all I wanted was to be alone and to sleep. Besides, I was sure the good pastor didn’t have a supply of booze at his little church. That would be a problem.
“I’m good. Thanks anyway,” I said, and made to leave.
“Hey, you wouldn’t be the guy that roughed up a couple of hooligans over at the Pier Patio Pub, are you?”
I turned and looked at him, saying nothing.
“Because if you are, the cops are on their way and I’m pretty sure one or more of them is about to be taken to the hospital.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“It was my last stop after seeing you. The hostess told me what happened.”
I could’ve run or just walked away. It would be easy to disappear. That’s what people didn’t get. If you were halfway smart, and knew the places you should and should not go, disappearing was damn easy.
I didn’t disappear. I don’t know if it was the alcohol-induced calm or the sincerity in the pastor’s voice, but I said, “Why would you want to help someone who did that?”
He shrugged as if he’d seen it a thousand times. Maybe he had.
“Guys like them come down from Canada all the time. They’re looking for trouble and nine times out of ten they find it. Our cops don’t like it, and neither do the bar owners, but it’s hard to turn away business, especially when it’s not peak season. Anyhow, the hostess said the guys deserved it, and I’ll bet she’s right.”
I stared at him, looking for any sign it was some kind of trap, a ruse to get me to go to the cops. He didn’t shift or look away. He just stared right back, that same funny look on his face, like a kid who didn’t care what the next moment would bring.
“Could we stop at a convenience store on the way?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I nodded and found myself walking around to the other side of the cab. I took off my pack, opened the door, and slid in. The interior smelled like motor oil and shoe leather. I buckled my seat belt and he put the truck in drive.
Before he released the brake, he looked over at me and extended his hand again.
“Ed Walker,” he said.
I shook his hand for the second time that day, and replied, “Daniel. Daniel Briggs.”
Chapter 3
There were times when I didn’t think the good pastor knew where the hell he was going. Inevitably, he’d make a eureka face and pulled into a driveway. Leaving the truck idling, he stepped out and grabbed a box from the back. He didn’t ask for my help and I didn’t offer it. After the third stop, he pulled into a convenience store where I bought a bottle of water and a handle of Jack Daniels.
Pastor Walker didn’t say anything about that either, not even a sideways glance. I didn’t know if he was being nice or if he just didn’t care. In my half-drunken state I even wondered if he was going to take me to some place in the woods and take everything that I had. Not that I would’ve cared, I didn’t have much on me, but even as ragged as I was, the guy was no match for me. I grunted my amusement as the pickup pulled out of the strip and back onto the main drag.
I lost count after six stops and took to staring out the window at the quaint little homes propped on well-tended lawns. It struck me as odd that the people in those homes were obviously in need, as evidenced by the second-hand food delivery, and yet, they still kept their yards tidy and their aging homes on par with the rest of the community.
After the last box left the truck bed, Pastor Walker turned the sputtering vehicle west and into the late afternoon sun. I kept yawning and almost dozed off. More homes flew by, then a golf course and next we rambled over some big interstate. I felt the truck slowing and saw an intersection coming up ahead.
Pastor Walker pointed. “That’s the church up there,” he said, gesturing past the intersection. It looked more like a barn than a church. You couldn’t miss its rooster red roof and painted gray exterior. The place looked like something a fancy designer thought a barn should look like, all coordinated and sharp.
I didn’t say what I was thinking as he took a left turn on Jenkins Road and then pulled into the first driveway on the right. There were huge bushy trees standing guard close to the house, making it hard to see what you were coming up on. When we broke past the sentinels, the size of the home surprised me. It wasn’t huge, but definitely not what I expected.
The driveway looped all the way around the two-story home, and I soon saw two more buildings on the property. The one closer to the house looked like a smaller version of the big house, and the other looked like an old barn where some farmer used to stack hay.
“That’s where you’ll be staying,” the pastor said, pointing to the small house.
The booze must’ve been getting to me because I almost blurted, “Are those the slaves’ quarters?” Instead I said, “Looks nice.”
“It’s got one bedroom, a small kitchen and a full bath. No television or air conditioning, but it’s cozy.”
I nodded and almost groaned at the thought of a bed. My stamina waned and my body begged for rest.
Thankfully, he parked right next to the guest house. I tried not to seem too eager as I followed him through the door and listened as he gave me the dime tour. There wasn’t much to the place, and it looked like most of the furniture was hand-me-downs from old ladies, but he was right, it was cozy and clean.
“There are towels and soap under the bathroom sink and the sheets on the bed are clean. Feel free to join us for dinner at seven.”
“Us?” I asked.
“My daughter and me.”
“You’re not married?”
He shook his head.
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
I couldn’t think of anything other than some privacy so I could flop down on the bed. Then I thought of something.
“I’d like to pay you for the room.”
“It’s really not necessary,” he said.
“I insist,” my mouth felt dry and I could sense that my words might be slurring. You never knew if you were the one slurring the words. Keep it short, I thought. “How about fifty bucks for the night?” It seemed reasonable to me and a bargain compared to what the sharks on the beach would’ve charged.
“Deal,” he said, and turned to leave. Pastor Walker stopped at the door and looked at me. “I just want you to know that you’ll be safe here, Daniel.” I knew he really meant it, like those people who say, “Everything is going to be okay,” but I’d been around too many shitty situations to believe him. If life had taught me anything, it was that the second you thought things were goo
d, the universe cocked an arm and punched you right in the face.
I kept my thoughts to myself again, forced a smile, and said, “Thanks.”
He returned my smile and left. I exhaled and walked into the bedroom, falling face first onto the bed. I don’t remember falling asleep.
+++
I woke to the sound of the old pickup truck starting, or at least trying to. It was giving someone a helluva time with its whining and coughing. I went to open my mouth and found my lips were stuck together from a severe lack of saliva. My tongue searched for moisture and found none. I needed water.
Turning onto my side, I saw the old fashioned clock on the side table, the kind with the two bell looking things on the top. It said six thirty-four. I searched my mind for a minute, sure that we’d arrived just after six o’clock. That’s when I realized that I’d slept through the night and into the next day. It was morning.
I rubbed my face with my hands and eased off the bed. There was no hangover, just a rumble in my stomach and the nasty taste in my mouth, like onions and booze.
When I got to the bathroom, I turned on the water and put my mouth under the faucet for a good minute. Once I felt halfway awake and no longer in need of immediate hydration, I stripped down and turned on the shower. It was frigid, but that’s what I needed, and it was my usual routine anyway.
I stepped into the icy water and focused on my breathing. The chill swept away the cobwebs and yanked me back to the land of the living. The water warmed gradually, and I took my time lathering up and rinsing off.
Once out, dry and dressed in the only spare set of clothing I had, I left the privacy of the guest cottage and walked toward the house. The front door was open and I could smell biscuits as I got closer. I knocked on the doorjamb. No one answered. I stepped inside and said, “Hello?” Again, no answer.
I followed the only sound in the house, what at first I thought was a radio and then realized was someone singing as I moved deeper into the house. The singing and the smell was coming from the kitchen. Now I heard the sizzling of food on a skillet, and then came the aroma of greasy bacon.
I looked inside and saw a girl with straight black hair rocking back and forth in front of the stove. She had a pair of headphones on and was oblivious to my presence. I didn’t want to scare her so I said, in my best not scary voice, “Hello?”
She didn’t jump, but she did turn.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully, lowering the headphones to her neck. “Hungry?”
She must’ve been about fourteen or fifteen. Her eyes were a piercing blue, like a sheet of Arctic ice. The only way I could describe her face was to say that it was regal, like one of those duchesses or something. But she didn’t look at me like I was some lower class schmuck. Her smile was warm and welcoming, like she was happy to see me in the most sincere way possible.
“Yeah, I’m starved,” I answered finally.
“Awesome, because I made a ton,” she said, turning back to the stove. “I’m Anna, by the way.”
“I’m Daniel,” I said reflexively.
“I know, Dad told me.”
I felt a little weird being in a house alone with a teenage girl. It wasn’t that I was attracted to her, but I wasn’t often alone with people, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d talked to a girl, let alone a teenage one. She didn’t seem to mind, though, and kept going.
“We missed you for dinner last night. You must’ve been tired. Dad said you came in on the train. Where did you come from?”
She talked fast, like a kid on caffeine, but not in an annoying way, more like she had a lot to say and wanted to get it out in an efficient manner.
“I came up from Florida,” I answered.
“Ah, you’re lucky. I’ve always wanted to go to Florida. Dad says he’s going to take me some day. I hear the water’s green down there.”
“They call it the Emerald Coast on the gulf side, along the Panhandle,” I said, for some reason feeling the need to explain it to her.
She nodded seriously.
“Is it true they have manatees? I love manatees. They’re so cute.”
I chuckled.
“I’m not sure.”
I’d never seen a manatee during my time on the coast. I’d seen plenty of other things, including my fair share of the ocean, but never manatees.
“Where’d your dad go?” I asked, hoping he was close by.
“He’s out back working on the truck. He’s always working on the truck. I hope it didn’t wake you up this morning.”
“It’s okay. It was better than some of the other wake-up calls I’ve had.”
She turned and stared at me, like she was expecting me to say more. I didn’t, and she turned back to the bacon.
“Breakfast will be ready in five minutes. Could you go to the back and get Dad?”
“Sure.”
We sat down at the kitchen table and Pastor Walker said grace. He finished it with, “And Lord, thank you for giving us this time with our new friend Daniel. Amen.”
I looked up and saw Anna smiling at me and then she rolled her eyes as if to say, “My Dad always does that.”
I ate in silence, making sandwiches out of the biscuits, scrambled eggs and bacon. Not Anna. Anna talked and talked. At one point I watched her, amazed that she could eat and talk at the same time. It got easier as I plowed through my first and then my second helping of breakfast. Her voice was young and inquisitive, just on the cusp of becoming an adult. And she talked very matter-of-factly, like everything was important. It might’ve bothered someone else, someone who thought teenagers should listen instead of speak, but it didn’t bother me. Her innocence was refreshing, like encountering a person who’d never seen any of life’s evils. I found myself longing to hear more, like maybe the mere sound of her voice could wash away the memories.
When breakfast was over and the dishes were cleaned and put away, Pastor Walker excused himself. “Mrs. Fendling isn’t doing well. I told her I’d stop by.”
Anna gave her dad a hug and kiss and then shooed him out the door. When he’d chugged down the drive and back toward town, Anna asked what my plans were.
I surprised myself by saying, “I was going to hop on a train north, but do you think your dad might let me stay another night?”
Her face lit up like I’d just told her I’d saved her father’s life.
“He wouldn’t mind at all. Just make yourself at home and let me know if you need anything.”
I went back to the guest house and thought about climbing back into bed, this time under the covers. But instead of fading out again, I grabbed the dented metal flask with a weathered Marine Corps eagle, globe and anchor on one side, and filled it from the handle of Jack Daniels. With that task done, I pocketed the flask and headed for the door. A nice long walk would do me good.
Anna told me the land they lived on, loaned to the small congregation by a wealthy guy who owned half of Old Orchard Beach, included the three buildings and close to fifty acres of farmland.
“We haven’t farmed it since we’ve been here, but Dad keeps talking about it.”
After accepting a bottle of water and a general description of the layout of the property, I stepped into the cool morning.
I walked slowly, savoring the solitude and imagining what life would be like on a farm. No worries other than the rise and fall of the sun and tending to the land and any animals you had. I knew plenty of guys in the Corps who said they’d find a plot of land and work it after leaving the Big Green Machine. Some of those guys never made it back. I didn’t know about the rest. Keeping in touch wasn’t really my thing.
I skirted the edge of the property, catching glimpses of rabbits and the occasional deer through the vegetation. The land needed tending, and I decided to offer my services to the pastor. It’d been awhile since my time as the neighborhood lawn guy, but I was sure it would come back to me quickly.
As I looped around the far corner of the property, I could almost smell
the presence of water. There had to be a spring or a creek nearby. Sure enough, a couple minutes later I found the brook that ran into the woods and skirted the southern edge of the Walkers’ land. I followed it until the untended fields were out of view, squatting every few minutes to dip my hands in the water and turn over a rock or two. It was like when I was a kid, out hunting for crawdads and minnows with my friends.
I was halfway through the woods when something caught my eye. As I got closer, I saw that it was some kind of structure, low and dark. It was made of concrete, and tangled vines covered its sides. It was probably twenty feet by ten feet. A sad rectangle. When I stepped around to the front, I was surprised, not that there was a door to the place, but that it was cleared of woodsy debris, and there was even a window mounted AC unit above the door. It wasn’t on, but I could tell it worked.
I tried the doorknob with no luck. There was a deadbolt above the doorknob and I gave it a look. It wasn’t anything fancy, but served its purpose. Normally I probably would’ve let it be and walked on, but that morning I felt refreshed, like a part of the old me was back. My curiosity itched.
Having a military background had its advantages, one being the opportunity to pick up unique talents you’d probably never learn in the civilian world. Some could be applicable to the outside, and some might not. I never thought I’d use this one in the real world, but I fished out the small case from my pocket and ripped open the Velcro seal.
The tools were a gift from a buddy of mine in sniper school. He was from the Bronx, and always used to brag that he could break into anything with a lock. He bet the entire class he could out thieve any one of us, and wagered a bottle of Johnny Walker Black that he would win.
Five of us took him up on his challenge, which seemed almost impossible at the time. We would each have the same target, and the winning thief would be the one with the quickest in and out time. There were a couple caveats he explained after we had accepted. First, you couldn’t just bust down the door. You had to be slyer than that. Second, you couldn’t get caught. If you got caught, you were on your own. Third, you had to do it blindfolded. Fourth, the target was the office of the Staff Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge (SNCOIC) of the sniper school.