Touching Cottonwood

by Randall Simpson

  As Diane entered onto Main Street and then turned toward the sheriff’s office, she tried to recall the last time she’d even been in the office, as it had been so infrequently over the years. She thought it might have been nearly five years ago—when she stopped in to report a burglar alarm that was going off at a shop on Main Street, late one blustery night. It turned out to be a false alarm, as the alarm had been tripped by the wind. This time, she didn’t want any alarms being set off by her own foolishness—some accidental wind of words from her mouth—for even though Matthew was her son-in-law, neither Sparky nor the sheriff knew that, and it could appear very suspicious that she was looking for her daughter at the same office where Matthew was being held. She didn’t like to tell lies, but if it meant protecting Rebecca’s secret, she would have some little lie at the ready.

  Fifty-Five

  Extra Confirmation

  It wasn’t that Ernie Martinelli couldn’t accept miracles when they were presented to him—for he was far more accepting than most people would be—rather, it was just that this particular miracle was so peculiar and so unexpected that it required what Ernie referred to in his own mind as “extra confirmation” before he could fully accept the reality of it. The evidence on the video was powerful, and it had kept Ernie up long hours the night before, but to be absolutely certain of what he was dealing with, Ernie decided that he needed a more direct and personal experience.

  More than one odd stare was cast his way as Ernie entered his diner wearing his winter jacket, knitted hat, scarf, boots, gloves, and a determined look that said he was ready to face winter and below-freezing temperatures. It was more than understandable when dozens of pairs of curious eyes stopped what they were doing and followed him through the lobby of the diner. It was, after all, August and quite sunny and warm outside. Not giving any thought to the stares, he smiled kindly at a few familiar faces before disappearing into the kitchen.

  Ernie zipped up his jacket as he passed by the cook, who stopped chopping onions but remained silent as he too followed Ernie with his own disbelieving gaze. Ernie walked directly to the walk-in refrigerator, pulled his jacket hood up over his knitted cap, opened the door, and stepped in.

  The walk-in refrigerator had a total dimension of about eight feet by twelve feet to the inside walls, but because of the shelving, which was about two feet deep on each wall, the actual floor space, whereby one could move around inside, was about four feet by ten. There was an overhead light in the refrigerator, but it was normally kept off because it produced heat and made the refrigerator work harder to cool. Once inside the darkened refrigerator, Ernie promptly sat down on the floor along the back wall and began staring at a certain shelf that he noted upon entering currently held a single five-gallon container of milk.

  He hadn’t been in the darkened refrigerator for more than a minute, when he was jolted by a sudden noise and flash of light. His heart skipped.

  “Oh, Jeez!” said a very startled Jenny Aaronson as she stood at the door of the walk-in, one hand remaining on the light switch. “Mr. Martinelli! What are you doing in here?!”

  “Hi Jenny,” said Ernie calmly. “I’m just waiting.”

  “Waiting? For what? To scare me to death?!”

  “No, of course not…sorry about that. I’m waiting for milk.”

  She stared at him and squinted her eyes. “Uh, milk from where?” She then looked over at the container of milk sitting on the shelf and pointed at it. “It’s right there.”

  “I know,” said Ernie, “but I’m betting not for long. Did you come to get it?”

  “Uh, yeah…if that’s all right? I’ve gotta make three milkshakes, and we’re all empty out front.”

  “Good. Take that one and go.”

  “Thank you,” said Jenny, picking up the large container of milk with some effort. She turned to leave the refrigerator but at the last second stopped and turned back around. “So, who do you think it is, Mr. Martinelli? It’s not you, is it?”

  Ernie paused for a moment and said, “Would I be sitting here in the cold and dark if it was me, Jenny? I don’t know who it is, but I hope to find out soon.”

  Jenny shook her head and offered a meek smile. “Well, good luck. Do you want the light off?”

  “Yes, off please,” he replied with a chilled smile.

  She clicked off the light, turned around, and slammed the door shut, returning Ernie once more to the solitude of his artificial winter night. He focused immediately back in the direction of the now empty shelf where the milk had been.

  Twenty minutes later, he finally felt the cold starting to creep into his bones, but he knew it was now only a matter of time before the milk Jenny had taken would run out. He was prepared for as long of a wait as necessary to obtain this extra confirmation.

  Fifty-Six

  A First Attempt

  Rebecca walked up the front steps of the sheriff’s office and paused for a moment. She looked down at the small glistening star on her finger. She slipped off the ring, tucked it into her purse, and stepped inside.

  “Hey, Rebecca,” Sparky said with his usual energy. “What brings you down here on a Sunday?”

  Rebecca glanced around the small office, looking for what, she wasn’t sure—perhaps some hint of where Matthew was being held—but she tried to contain hints of her interest, fearing that Sparky might find her too interested. “I heard a friend of mine was arrested last night,” she said, trying to sound as calm as possible.

  Sparky’s eyes widened at her statement. “Who told you about that?” he asked.

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she replied. “You know this town is terrible at keeping secrets, Sparky. I could have heard it from just about anybody.”

  Sparky stared at her for a moment. He quickly swiveled around away from her in his chair and turned off the computer monitor he had been looking at when she walked in, but he left the computer on. She noted his swift action with interest, but looked away from him when he swiveled back to face her.

  “That’s the problem with small towns, I suppose,” said Sparky. “Everything becomes public. It takes all the fun out of even having secrets.” He paused a moment and then said, “Okay, yes, we do have a prisoner. I can confirm that much. Whether or not he’s a friend of yours, well, all I have to say about that is—maybe you ought to be more selective about the friends you keep. This guy’s a rotten egg.”

  The statement hurt, but she held back any emotion from crossing her face. She instead decided that taking a direct approach might be the best strategy for the situation.

  “You might be right,” she said, sitting down on the chair in front of Sparky’s desk and trying not to appear as desperate as she actually was. “Matthew could be a ‘rotten egg’ as you say, but he’s still been a friend of mine for a long time, and I’d like to visit with him.”

  “Whoa, hold on there, Rebecca,” snapped Sparky. “First of all, I never said it was Matthew Duncan that we were holding, and second of all, I don’t think the sheriff has authorized me to allow any visitors at this time.”

  “You know, Sparky,” she began, “first of all, I never said Matthew Duncan, so I guess we can both stop playing games, because we both know that’s who you have locked up here. And second of all, I have heard it from a most reliable source that, according to policy, prisoners are allowed a fifteen-minute visitation per day from friends or family. Since he doesn’t have any family left here, and I think I qualify as a friend, I don’t think I need to get the sheriff’s authorization or approval to see Matthew. I don’t think anyone else will be taking up those fifteen minutes.”

  Sparky glared at her and stood up. “I need to call the sheriff about this,” he said, moving away from his desk and over toward the sheriff’s private office. He entered and closed the door behind him.

  When the door had barely closed, Rebecca immediately looked over to the monitor that Sparky had turned off. What was on there that he didn’t want her to see? Her curiosity and intu
ition were pushing at her normal respect for privacy. She would never, in a million years, dream of eavesdropping on another person’s computer—especially that of a law enforcement official. But she had never been married before, and, more importantly, she certainly had never had a husband in jail before. If she was going to act, she needed to act immediately—before Sparky got off the phone with the sheriff.

  Rebecca stood up, hurried around the desk, and turned on the monitor. Her heart sank deeper with each word she read. A moment later, however, her shock turned to panic as she heard Sparky’s footsteps approaching the sheriff’s closed office door. She quickly turned the monitor off and had not quite fully gotten back to her chair, when the door opened. In one smooth motion, rather than sitting in the chair, she reached down for her purse, which rested on the floor next to the chair, and immediately began to stand back up, glancing up at Sparky as he approached the desk.

  How much had he seen?

  She thought she had at least been near her chair when the door opened, but she now felt she needed a mental distraction to prevent him from possibly connecting any of the dots. She watched his eyes carefully as she held her slightly bent over position. She then remembered that she wasn’t wearing a brassiere. Sparky took the bait. He didn’t even glance at the computer as he stared right down her shirt.

  As she stood fully upright, Rebecca’s mind jumped back to what she had glimpsed on the computer screen. “So, what did the sheriff have to say?” she asked, trying to hold her voice steady.

  Sparky didn’t answer right away, and Rebecca could see that his eyes did not meet hers but were instead roaming over her chest as though his imagination was now filling in the details of what he had just glimpsed.

  Sparky finally realized he had been asked a question and looked up from Rebecca’s chest to her eyes. He cleared his throat. “The sheriff,” he began, trying to sound as official as he could, “said that under the circumstances, visitations will not be allowed, as the prisoner is not currently being held as a suspect in any crime but as an escaped convict.”

  The sickness growing in her stomach extended now to a pain in her heart as well. Sparky had confirmed what she had only glimpsed on the computer screen. Matthew Duncan—her husband—was a wanted man in Washington State. Her throat tightened, and she knew tears would be coming if she couldn’t maintain control. She wanted to demand that Sparky immediately take her to see her husband. She thought for a moment of pulling the wedding ring out of her purse and telling Sparky the complete truth—but that, she knew, would be a mistake. She had to be strong. She had to continue to believe that something good would come from the sudden downward spiral of events falling upon her.

  “Well,” Rebecca said, using every bit of strength and calmness she could find to smooth over the growing storm inside of her, “I don’t think that sounds fair, but if that’s what the sheriff said, then I suppose he’s got his reasons for it. Still, I can’t imagine what harm it would do for me to just see him for a few minutes. We’re talking about Matthew Duncan, after all. You don’t think he’s dangerous, do you?”

  Rebecca watched his eyes closely. How much more might he know? How much more did she really want to know? Had Matthew lied to her? Her mind and heart were spinning—tumbling down into some dark confusion.

  “He’s not the Matt Duncan that you remember,” replied Sparky. “I think you’d be best to leave this whole thing alone.”

  Rebecca had barely heard his complete response. “I…” she began, feeling the tears rising closer to the surface, ready to burst forth, “appreciate that advice.” She immediately turned and headed for the front door. Sparky followed her with his eyes, without moving or speaking. “Thank you, Sparky,” she managed to say without turning around while opening the door. She stepped outside, closing the door behind her.

  Before the tears fully blurred her vision, at the bottom of the stairs she saw her mother, who looked as though she had only just arrived and was preparing to climb the stairs toward her. Her mother stopped, and with each step Rebecca took down, it was as though a spigot were opening wider and wider inside her. The tears started as a trickle, and by the time she was hugging her mother at the bottom of the stairs, she was pouring forth a great torrent upon her mother’s shoulder.

  Fifty-Seven

  The Cold Hard Truth

  When they were each only nineteen, Ernie Martinelli had asked Annette to marry him. He was secure in his job at the restaurant and would likely take it over from his father, once Ernie Sr. retired. She quickly turned him down. “We’re too young” was her reply at the time, and she was probably right. Ernie waited a year before he asked her again; the same answer was given. He repeated the same routine for four more years, until finally, when they were both twenty-four, she agreed; though even then she placed the condition that they wait until they were twenty-five to actually get married. Ernie never complained. He was happy when the woman he adored finally became his wife. Though Ernie called it patience, Annette always maintained it was Ernie’s plain “old-fashioned Italian stubbornness” that eventually won her over.

  There were lots of good fishing spots around Cottonwood, and if anyone in town was asked who the best fisherman was, they’d probably say it was Ernie. If asked why, most would quickly point to the fact that he never gave up. He could wait for hours at a time near a fishing hole, long after others would have left, until finally some fish would seemingly sacrifice itself and get on his hook. Perhaps this sacrifice was out of pity or, perhaps, respect for any human who would show such patience. After each catch, no matter how many hours he’d had to wait, Ernie always replied with a heart-felt “thank you” to the little fish. Such was the nature of Ernie Martinelli.

  It had been nearly two hours since Jenny Aaronson had first come and gone from the walk-in refrigerator, and since that time, the cook had come in twice—once for cheese and once for eggs. The first time, the cook was startled by Ernie’s presence, just as Jenny had been. The second time, the cook only said, “Sorry to bother you again, boss, but I need some eggs now.”

  Ernie now sat in the dark and cold, eyes fixed in the darkness on the spot on the shelf where the milk would go. Though now that the cook had twice come and gone, Ernie also occasionally glanced at the empty spots on the shelf where the eggs and cheese had been. Between these three depleted items, he felt a rising sense of optimism that he would catch what he had come for. He’d stood up several times during the two hours and briefly flipped on the light to make certain that there was still no milk, eggs, or cheese anywhere in the refrigerator. If the video he’d watched over and over portrayed what actually would happen, he reasoned that if he was patient he’d know when there was a new carton of milk or new container of eggs or cheese.

  As he sat there, his mind wandered among a million possibilities to explain the mystery that had settled into his little diner. Perhaps it was an elaborate practical joke on him. He imagined the whole staff gathered around the outside of the walk-in refrigerator at that very moment, hands to their mouths, all trying to hold back peels of mocking laughter: The fool boss—sitting inside in the cold and dark! At one point, he got up and opened the door and poked his head out. Only the cook was in the kitchen. He had his back to Ernie, busily flipping burgers and cooking hash browns. Ernie gently closed the door and sat back down in the dark.

  In the cold and silence, other explanations began to close in on him— uneasy explanations; explanations that make the average person squirm a bit, like a patient in a dentist’s chair preparing for something uncomfortable; explanations that didn’t fit well with the comfort of the everyday. These other explanations were all like a pair of ill-fitting shoes, several sizes too small or several sizes too big—and they now had Ernie cornered in his own walk-in refrigerator. He had chosen of his own free will to go fishing in the cold and dark, and he now had no choice but to face whatever came down the river and got on his hook.

  Ernie Martinelli had always believed in a higher power or somet
hing in the universe larger than himself—though for all his belief, he didn’t really have a clear conception of exactly what that higher something was. He held on to vague feelings that had first fallen upon him as a young boy, when he and his family had first arrived in Cottonwood and would take long hikes exploring the surrounding deep and primitive forests in the area. During those hikes, he would sometimes go off by himself and sit in silence listening to the wind dancing through the evergreen needles, a bird singing close or far away, or the tiny feet of a squirrel scurrying up a tree. When he’d been quiet long enough and simply listened, something seemed to fall out of the trees and descend upon him—something familiar, yet strange; something old, yet eternally new; something that reminded him of being together with all his family and friends for a large holiday gathering, while at the same time being alone in the most remote spot on earth, yet not being lonely—for that eternal something was always there.

  Finding the right words to express his feelings about that “eternal something” was not an issue for Ernie. That he had those feelings at all was enough for him. He ran his diner, took care of his wife and family, and was content to take his communion with nature when he could. He’d held true to the faith and religion he was born into, though he always felt it wasn’t quite exactly what he’d sensed while in the midst of nature. There was something wild, alive, and primitive in the feelings he had when he was in the forest. In church, though Pastor Harrison gave fine sermons, Ernie never felt they could be mistaken for being wild, alive, or primitive. In church, it was a struggle sometimes to find signs of life; while in the forest, however, it seemed as if the very core of life itself reached out to him. At those moments, he could feel its very pulse, mind, and vitality.

  When Ernie took up fishing, some wrongly believed he was displaying patience in his practice, but what they failed to understand was that he was not waiting for anything to occur at all—he was absorbing and delighting in the full, living spirit of the moment. Though he often fished by himself, Ernie was never alone while fishing. The universe opened up to Ernie Martinelli in those moments, and though he hadn’t the words to express what he felt, it was eternal and living and the most real of things he knew.