“That’s sick,” Sara said disgustedly.
“He died in that bedroom,” Samuel explained. “That’s why it’s always cold in there, even in July.”
“It’s cold in there because it’s a northeast corner,” Jane asserted.
He smiled. “Heard his laugh. Very distinctive. Your mother heard it, too.”
“The mind cannot distinguish between what is real and what it perceives as real,” Jane declared.
“Funny how two minds can have the same deception at the same time. Or does that mean you heard him, too?” Samuel was having fun; more fun than he had had in weeks, even though he seriously believed the ghost of Henry Winters was forever linked to that house.
Sara’s face held a quizzical look.
“We never told you about Henry’s ghost?” he asked.
“No, and we’re not going to this morning,” Jane stated.
She fetched more coffee from the stove and changed the subject. “What’s on your schedule today?”
The question drained the humor from Samuel’s face. “Got a noon radio interview in South Burlington. Meeting with a ladies book club in Rutland later. Thought you might like to go.”
All three of them understood that the offer, if accepted, was one way to dispel the rumors of divorce. Jane was not buying into it.
“What book are you discussing?” she asked, knowing full well there wasn’t one.
Sara shot her mother an angry look.
He didn’t pursue the matter. Silence again.
Jane threw him a bone. “I don’t feel like cooking. Why don’t we go into town for breakfast?”
“I’m up for it,” Sara agreed quickly. No child wants to see their parents get divorced, much less be caught in the mechanics of it. Anything to delay the inevitable, if it was inevitable.
“Sure.” He agreed to the compromise.
“You’ll be home for dinner?” Jane asked, further fending off the accusatory looks from her daughter.
“No.” His tone was apologetic. “We have a dinner speaking engagement with the Amvets in Montpelier. It’ll probably be nine or ten before I get back.”
“Ed going with you?” Jane inquired.
“Yes.” He checked the time on the wall clock. “We have to drop the car off at the airport on the way.”
“You’ll be fine, then,” Jane said. “We should get going.”
The wall phone rang suddenly. All three jumped at it’s jangling. They were more used to their cell phone ring tones but in many places in Vermont cell service was uncertain so many homes retained landlines.
Jane answered it on the second ring. She said, “Hello,” then handed it to Samuel. “It’s your dad.”
Chapter Twelve.
“The Main Street Café” had been a restaurant for as long as anyone alive in town could remember. They served three meals a day from six in the morning until six at night. Late diners had to content themselves with one of the fast-food chains nearer the interstate, or cook at home. There was a small counter, only six stools, where on weekdays many locals took breakfast or just coffee. Tourists and other visitors might breakfast at one of the dozen tables or the four booths along the back wall. The furniture was old. Pads on the stools and bench seats were well worn. The two-inch thick, irregular shaped maple tabletops, constructed to resemble tree trunk cuttings, had been refinished many times. Hardly any of the chairs matched. The print on the half curtains in the two long windows was faded beyond recognition; but they were clean. Two of the waitresses and the head cook, all well past fifty, had been there since high school. The atmosphere was easy, laid back. For the regulars, it was an extension of home.
The smells of bacon and coffee overpowered the eggs, ham, and hash browns. This morning the room was three-quarters filled, more with strangers than locals. The unlucky leaf peepers, who had planned their sojourns for the peak of fall foliage months in advance, were stoking up before setting out to view the leaves, most of which were undeveloped colors or dead browns and now mostly on the ground thanks to the early wet and heavy snow. In the extreme southern end of the state, leaves were just beginning to turn from green to red, gold, and orange. But trying to change hotel accommodations during season was nearly impossible. Most motels were booked solid and the prices reflected the demand.
The tinkle of the little brass bell over the door alerted everyone in the room that more patrons had arrived. Samuel held the door open for Jane and Sara. The hostess guided the Winters towards a corner booth.
Hugh entered moments behind them. From the doorway, he studied Samuel’s and Jane’s faces for a moment. Then he strode to a center table and sat down. The others joined him.
“Nice of you to call, Dad,” Samuel said.
The waitress placed menus at each place setting and left. “I’ll be back with coffee,” she said.
Hugh flung the folded newspaper from under his arm to the table. “Traitors,” he said in a loud voice. “That’s what he’s calling us. Traitors.”
“Who?” Samuel asked in a hushed voice.
“Who? The GD vice president, that’s who,” Hugh declared. “Traitors, if we don’t support his good-for-nothing, blessed-to-hell war.”
Nearby diners turned to stare.
“I didn’t vote for it if that’s what you’re getting at,” Samuel said loud enough for the eavesdroppers to hear but not too loud. He made a mental note to remove the photo of himself and the vice president from the office wall if his father ever hinted at visiting Washington.
“That chicken-livered, draft-dodging, son-of-a-gun doesn’t care that our young men are dying over there as long as he can plunk his sanctimonious fat…” He omitted a word. “…next to the throne and shove his hand up the puppet’s backside to make his lips move.”
Samuel hid his face with his open hand. If the floor had suddenly opened a hole to hell he would have gladly jumped in. “Dad! For godsake, keep your voice down,” Samuel pleaded in a raspy tone.
“Hugh,” Jane demanded, “whatever in the world has gotten into you?” She slid the newspaper off the table onto her lap. She glared at him like a mother wolf disciplining a cub.
He wilted under her gaze; most people did. His tone and demeanor abated abruptly. “Had a feeling,” he mumbled, picking up the menu. “Early this morning.”
Samuel and Jane looked at each other but didn’t speak.
Sara looked at her parents, then at Hugh. “Grandpa,” she asked, “do you believe in ghosts?”
“Sara,” Jane cautioned. “I thought I told you not to bring it up.”
“Do you?” Hugh asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“I’m not sure of all kinds of things.” Hugh laid the menu aside. He had known what he was going to order before sitting down.
“Do you believe in God?” Sara asked.
“Sara!” her mother hissed.
“Well I never see you in church.” Sara pressed her point.
“Don’t believe in religion,” Hugh answered gruffly. “Not no more. Learned that from Guy.” He looked intently at Samuel and Jane. “Henry, wasn’t it?”
“How did you know?” Jane exclaimed.
“I felt a change in The Force,” he answered matter-of-factly.
“You believe in The Force?” Sara was surprised again. It seemed there might be many things about her grandfather that she didn’t know.
“Didn’t think I’d evah seen them Star Wars picture shows, didja?” Hugh asked. His eyes shone, humored that he’d punctured a hole in his granddaughter’s concept of himself.
“Grandpa, do you believe in the Jedi powers?” Sara was amused and intrigued by the astonishing revelations coming from a man whom she thought she knew.
“You mean like levitation and mind control?” he asked. “Hell, no.”
The waitress returned. She poured coffee all around. Hugh fixed on her.
“But call it The Force, the Universe, or the flow of all of humanity’s thoughts circling the globe as electrical i
mpulses held captive in the atmosphere by the earth’s magnetic field and available to anyone who desires to tap into to it, or God, don’t matta. A rose is a rose is a rose.” He enjoyed getting a rise out of people. He looked for a reaction from the waitress. She pretended not to have one, standing with her order pad and pencil at the ready, a bored look about her. Two couples at nearby tables rose up and left.
“Grandpa, that’s deep,” Sara exclaimed. “So you do believe.”
“The ethereal side of mankind, darn straight. Religion, hell no. That’s a bunch of horse pucky made up by men to control other men. Only thing worse than politics is religion.”
“Glad I didn’t think to become a preacher,” Samuel said sheepishly.
“Been a damn waste of time and money on law school if you had,” Hugh snapped.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that many words come out of your mouth at one time,” Jane declared. Her hope to tone down the rhetoric was evident in her severe tone.
“Been savin’ ‘em.” Hugh winked at Sara, looked at the waitress out of the corner of his eye but still couldn’t detect a reaction.
The waitress shifted from one foot to the other. “You ready to order?” she asked of no one in particular.
After their orders had been taken and the waitress departed to give them to the cook, Samuel shifted the conversation, “Kind of unusual, all of us having breakfast together in town on a Saturday.”
“Uh huh,” Hugh replied, testing his coffee cautiously. It was hot but not too hot. He took a healthy swig.
“Folks may talk,” Samuel joked.
“Uh huh,” Hugh said again.
In fact, they were both counting on people doing precisely that. While many of the locals cast a contemptuous eye on Hugh when it came to his religious views, they respected him otherwise. In the agrarian economy days, Hugh’s great-grandfather had been one of the most successful and respected farmers in the area, along with Ed’s great-grandfather. Fortunes shifted as the economy shifted from farming to industry. Still, reputations, good or bad, could follow in this tight-knit community for generations. One of the first questions asked of a stranger was often, “Who was your father?” Breakfasting with Samuel’s family bestowed on them, particularly on Samuel, all the reverence still accorded to Hugh Winters.
“Be good optics,” Hugh said. “Just like now.”
The family sat silently until their orders arrived, sipping coffee and feeling the others in the room watch them.
Hugh stuffed a forkful of French toast slathered in real butter and maple syrup in his mouth. He spoke and chewed simultaneously, picking up the conversation where it had been left. “Might put some speculations ta rest. They see we’re all together. Seein’ trumps hearin’ anytime.”
His accent was not near as pronounced as Ed’s but it distinguished him as a true Vermonter, not one of the yuppies who had invaded in the sixties from California and other places and stayed to farm organically. Most of those who stayed discovered there was a lot more work than romance in farming and went on to other endeavors.
“This was a good idea,” Jane offered. “Thank you, Hugh.” She always called him by his first name, never “dad.” Her own father was the only one she called “dad,” even though Elias Lampiere had been dead for more than three years. He had lived long enough to see his daughter’s husband installed as a United States senator; her mother had not been so fortunate. Margaret Lampiere was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s before Samuel’s first election campaign had begun. The signs had been there for years prior—near term memory loss, inability on occasion to recognize old friends, even family members, being found in her nightdress wandering down a dirt road five miles from home. The family put off the inevitable as long as possible. By the time she did finally see the family doctor, she only lasted another two months before having to be institutionalized. She died on Halloween just before the election. Jane had thought it eerily poetic that she passed on a night when witches, goblins, and ghosts roamed the streets, masked from their real selves as Margaret had been.
Hugh acknowledged her thanks with a nod and another swig of coffee. “Pete come to see me,” he said before indulging in another mouthful of French toast.
“Pete Maxham?” Samuel’s surprise showed.
“Who else?” Hugh replied, his open mouth exposing the partially chewed food.
Sara looked away. She couldn’t understand why grandpa, or anyone for that matter, would talk with their mouth full.
Jane was more discrete. She pretended not to notice that Hugh continued to chew with his mouth slightly open, ready to respond in like manner to the next question. She waited until he swallowed to ask, “What did he want?”
Hugh speared his last large bite of toast with his fork, held it close to his mouth, using it to emphasize his words. He lowered his voice slightly, knowing that it would only make the nearby diners listen more intently. “Wanted me to know he was goin’ scoutin’ deer trails.”
Samuel snorted. “Ed told everybody he’d disappeared.”
Hugh sneered. “Thought you knew Ed Burke’s one of the biggest gossips around.”
“Did he mention George shooting at him?” Samuel asked.
“He did.” Hugh chewed his last piece.
When no one else spoke, Sara injected, “He shot at me, too, grandpa.”
Hugh avoided looking at her, looked Samuel straight in the eye instead. “Fiddlesticks.”
“She took a piece of shrapnel, uh brick, in her coat,” Samuel explained.
“No, he didn’t,” Hugh said adamantly, still staring at his son.
“How do you know?” Sara demanded defensively.
Hugh spun his head to face her. “Why would he? Besides, you’re alive, ain’t ya? Both of ya?” He turned back to Samuel. “You ever know George to miss?”
Samuel shook his head.
“What was he shooting at then?” Jane asked.
“Just what he said at the time, coyotes,” Hugh answered loudly.
There was a moment of silence throughout the café. Hugh looked around the room. Other diners resumed eating as his gaze came upon them.
“Anyone bother to look in the field? See if maybe there was a dead coyote?” Hugh raised his coffee cup. The waitress with a coffee pot instantly made her way through the tables. Like so many others in the room, she obviously had been paying attention to the conversation while pretending not to eavesdrop.
“Anyone seen Pirate lately?” Hugh asked as the waitress refilled his cup. She took her time refilling the others at the table. She didn’t want to miss further details.
Hugh blew on the hot coffee before taking a sip. He turned to Sara to explain. “Coyotes hunt in packs. Sometimes they’ll send a bitch out to lure a male dog into the bushes. Damn males fall for it every time. Ain’t much difference between dogs and men. Once she’s got him on her scent, the rest of the pack jumps him. Fore you can say “jack rabbit,” dinner is served.”
“That’s awful,” Sara said.
“Ain’t pretty.” Hugh wiped his mouth with napkin.
“Well, then, why did he admit to shooting at Pete?” Samuel asked.
“Wouldn’t tell me,” Hugh replied. He took another sip of coffee. “Brings up a good point though. Jane, I know it ain’t the last Sunday in the month but why don’t you invite me to Sunday dinna tomorra? Be a good idear to invite Olin Huff and his missus, too.”
Jane looked to Samuel for confirmation. He shrugged consent. “Absolutely,” she said. “About two-thirty?”
Hugh stood up, taking his final sip of coffee in the process. “Perfect. Maybe we can put some other rumas ta bed.” He reached down and hugged Sara around the shoulders, their cheeks touching.
“Remember this,” he told her. “The evil that men do lives after them. Shakespeare.”
He walked to Jane. She reached up to him. He bent down. They hugged at a distance. Samuel stood as Hugh approached him. It looked like they might hug but instead they shook hands, firmly,
Hugh clasping his left hand on top of their rights. They held the pose long enough to make certain everyone in the café had an opportunity to see, if they were so inclined; most were.
Hugh passed Ed in the doorway. Neither spoke, both nodded.
“Ready ta go?” Ed called to Samuel.
Samuel nodded resignedly. He bent low, kissing Jane on the lips. She squeezed her cheek next to his. “Are you all right?” she whispered in his ear?”
“Fine,” he whispered back before letting go.
He walked to Sara, not sure exactly how to say goodbye. She did it for him, reaching her arms around his bent neck, kissing him quickly on the lips. He stepped back, dazed, smiling. It was the first time since she was a pre-schooler that Sara had kissed him on the lips. “Most of us are a mixture of varying degrees of good and bad. But the good is often interred with the bones,” he whispered to her. “Shakespeare wrote that as well.”
As they walked to the door, Ed told Samuel, “Howard wants you to call.”
Puzzled as to why Howard had not called him directly, Samuel reached in his jacket pocket for his cell phone. It was turned off; something he always did out of respect in his father’s presence. He turned it on, waited for a signal before punching a favorite key. “Howard, what’s up?”
He listened as they walked. Ed had parked his pickup next to the rental car. It would be good for the re-election for Samuel to be seen traipsing around the state in a pickup; made him look like a man of the people. Samuel waited until he closed the door of the rental, out of earshot of Ed, to ask, “So what was she doing in the office that late?”
“She said she had forgotten a book she wanted to read over the weekend.” Howard’s voice was interspersed with an abnormal amount of static.
“That sounds familiar.”
“Same excuse she used before.” More static.
“I thought you took back the key.”
“I did. She talked the night guard into letting her in.”
“Remind me, who recommended her?”
“Senator Ramirez.” Static. “and a guy I went to college with. He’s a lawyer in Miami.”
A figure caught Samuel’s eye as he slowly drove down Main Street. He pulled to the side and checked just to be certain. Betty was opening the door to his campaign headquarters. He shook his head, surprised even at his age, at how fast word spread. Everyone in town, particularly after this morning’s breakfast, knew that Hugh Winters kept his distance from politics. The mere sight of him with Samuel and the family was enough to quiet some rumors even if there was no real connection between the alleged offense and the meeting. If Betty was back at work, it wouldn’t be long before the volunteers returned as well. Samuel sighed. He supposed it was what he wanted.
Mid-Life Friends and Illusions Page 12