Chapter 5
(The Brothers)
A bright light shone in his face while Allan lay sleeping. He raised his hand and tried to push it away to no avail. He reached down to pull the covers over his head, but could not seem to find the blanket. Lastly, he rolled.
Remembering too late he had not slept in his bed but rather on the old wooden swing hanging on the front porch of the cabin, he tumbled right off, landing on the unforgiving wooden planks of the porch. The shock to his body woke him immediately. He opened his eyes and saw the overhanging eave, the bottom of the swing, the eave, the swing. He timed his rise to coincide with the eave. The swing caught him in the side of the head.
He took a moment to gather his bearings as his fingers probed what he knew would become a large bruise. He rose to his feet, the events of the previous night flooding his mind. A heaviness fell over him and he collapsed onto the swing, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun’s reflection off the lake’s surface. He ran his other hand through his hair. He needed a hot shower and a good cup of coffee. Both were on the other side of the cabin door, taunting him. Without the key they may as well not exist.
His face fell into his hands and he rubbed at the sleepiness and frustration. His options were limited. He could break a window, which may take days if not weeks to have repaired. Or he could return to the general store where Mr. Jasper kept a copy of his key. The store’s proprietor, and former owner of the cabin, kept an eye on the place when Allan wasn’t there.
He stood, stretched and slipped his feet into his shoes. Checking his watch, he saw that was seven-thirty. He knew from experience that his feet would be hurting by eight. He also knew he would not reach the store by then. He only hoped he could make it by lunch time. Head down in defeat, he stepped off the porch and started up the road that would lead him back to the highway.
Though he had made the walk several times before to use the phone, it was normally accompanied with the exhilaration of finishing a manuscript and he wore walking rather than dress shoes. He had never noticed the number of stones and exposed roots on the path. Repeatedly he stumbled and slipped. He stubbed his toe, twisted his ankle and twice threw his hands out to break his fall. By the time he made it to the highway he was winded, limping and rubbing at the cuts in his hands. He could feel what imagined must be massive blisters forming on the soles of his feet.
Reaching the smooth pavement of the highway was a relief, but the sharp pain shooting up his legs from his wounded feet brought tears to his eyes. Allan tried to force the pain from his mind by concentrating on something else. The first thought he had was of Sarah and her affair, which balled his emotions in his chest. Pushing those visions from his mind brought him to think about his stomach. He had not eaten since lunch the day before. He was at the airport in one of the small diners; grilled ham and cheese with tomato soup. It had been a practical choice, filling yet inexpensive compared to other items on the menu. Looking back on it now, he wished he had chosen something more substantial.
Allan was lost in thought when a blue truck fender pulled up next to him, so close he thought it was going to strike him. He yelped and jumped away, his eyes wide with fear. The truck rolled to a stop and the passenger window lowered, the driver leaning toward him.
“You ‘kay, Bud?” The man’s face was creased with deep wrinkles, his features closing in on each other like a rotten apple. Allan guessed him to be a hundred years old and wondered if it was safe for him to be driving. The truck, with its rounded features and a split windshield, reminded Allan of moonshine runners during prohibition. He was so caught off guard by the appearance of the small, shriveled old man sitting in the equally old truck, he neglected to respond to the question. A fact the man pointed out by saying, “You deef?”
“No,” Allan said. “Sorry, just startled. I was lost in thought and didn’t know you were there.”
“Thoughts is good,” the old man said. “Lost in ‘em, ain’t.”
“Guess not,” Allan acknowledged.
“Needin’ a ride, Bud?”
“Sure,” Allan said, hesitantly. He still wasn’t convinced a man his age should be driving. “That would be nice. I’m just going to the general store.”
“Same’s here,” the man said. “Hop yersef on in here. Man can’t git no place, lest he’s movin’.”
Allan climbed in and held out his hand. “My name’s Allan.”
“Folks call me Pappy,” the old man ignored Allan's hand. He shifted the truck into gear and it lurched forward. Allan pulled his hand back, wiping the palm on his shirt. “Store’s good fer me. Gotta git some stuff.”
“Probably won’t be open when we get there,” Allan pointed out.
“You fixin’ to rob the place?” Pappy did not look his way. He didn’t smile. Allan wondered if the man was joking.
“I know the owner,” Allan explained.
The old man twisted his neck and looked Allan over with a furrowed brow. “You know Larry, do ya?”
“If you mean Mr. Jasper,” Allan said. “I do.”
“Mr. Jasper?” the old man laughed. He laughed hard. He looked back at Allan and laughed even harder. “Ain’t never called ‘im that.”
“He a friend of yours?”
“Ain’t no friend of mine,” he sneered shaking his head. “His momma was my momma though.”
“Oh, so you’re brothers,” Allan said.
“Not brothers.”
“But you said you had the same mother.”
“Same momma,” Pappy repeated. “Differ’nt pop.”
“Half bothers,” Allan said.
“Not brothers,” the old man barked.
Allan didn't pursue the subject further. The two of them fell into an intense silence. Five minutes later as the rundown brick building with large storefront windows came into view, a sense of relief washed over him. He hoped Larry would be there, getting ready for the day. If not, Allan would have to walk to the dilapidated house behind the store, where the owner lived.
The truck slid to a halt in front of the general store and the old man climbed out and onto the front porch. Walking up to the door, he pulled a key out of his trousers and unlocked the store. Allan stood next to the truck with his mouth open. Allan knew that Larry ran the store alone every day. This man was letting himself in. Allan looked around for help and saw no one. He looked at the old man who was carrying a shopping basket toward the fresh produce. Allan had to do something. So he ran.
Ignoring the pain of his feet, he rounded the corner of the store toward the small house set back into the trees. Not much larger than Allan’s cabin and far less appealing, the structure was almost hidden by overgrown shrubs. The yard, if it could be called that, was covered with the remains of various appliances and grocery equipment. Old shopping carts, supporting a leaning fence, were filled with internal parts to refrigeration units and lighting fixtures. Allan was forced to slow as he navigated the random metal scrap, dropped haphazardly over the years. When he reached the front door, he banged his fist on paint peeled wood. A few minutes later, a small, aged, hardened man opened the door and peered out.
“Mr. Bolder,” Larry said without emotion. “What brings you here?”
In all the years Allan had known Larry, the only time the man got his name right was the day he showed Allan the cabin. As soon as he learned Allan was a writer Larry brought his books into the store to sell using the local celebrity angle. The author’s name on the books was Allan’s pen name, and from that day forward Allan was Jack Bolder as far as Larry was concerned.
“There is . . . a man . . . in your store,” Allan said between breaths. “He’s taking stuff. Had a key.”
“I knew it,” Larry said, angrily. It was not the reaction Allan expected. Larry disappeared into his house, reappearing with a shotgun tucked under one arm. Allan’s eyes grew wide. Larry walked toward his store in short quick steps. “This is going to stop.”
As he had at the house the night before, Allan stood fr
ozen by fear. He watched the man charge to the defense of his store and wondered if he should follow or wait where he was. Even though he wanted to wait, staying clear of any possible violence, it occurred to him the safest place to be was directly behind the man with the gun. Otherwise, he could be a victim of a stray shot. Inhaling, he raced after Larry who had almost reached the store.
Allan caught up to the man just as he turned the corner of the building. They could easily see Pappy standing next to his truck loading bags of groceries into the back. His back was to them and he seemed unaware of the two men walking up behind him. Larry leveled his shotgun on the old man’s back and closed the distance between them. Ten feet away he stopped, a distance Allan was sure would be lethal if the gun went off. Pappy was organizing his loot until he turned on them fast enough to defy his age. In his hands was his own shotgun aimed straight at Larry’s mid-section. Allan’s safe spot was suddenly ground zero.
“I knew it,” Larry repeated what he said to Allan a few minutes before. “I knew you still had a key. You lying sack of . . .”
“Quit yer bellyachin’,” Pappy sneered. “Ya knew how momma wanted things. Ya knew.”
“This was my pa’s store,” Larry said gruffly. “I can’t help it if you’re pa was a lying, worthless . . .”
“Watch yer tongue, Larry,” the old man raised the barrel of his gun to point at Larry’s head. “Or I’ll blow it outa yer mouth.”
Allan was standing just behind Larry, looking over his shoulder at the business end of the shotgun. He knew the second the old man pulled the trigger Larry would duck out of the way just in time and the blast would catch Allan square in the face. He was going to die. As sure as he was standing there, he was going to die and he couldn’t get his feet to move.
“Damn it, Harold,” Larry said. “You know my dad left me this place. You know there ain’t enough business to support both of us. Hell, that’s why I had to sell the cabin to Mr. Bolder here. Freezer went out and that was the only way I could pay for the repair.”
Pappy let the barrel of his shotgun dip. He glanced at Allan then back at his half-brother. “You sold the cabin?”
“A few years back,” Larry said, lowering his own gun to where it pointed to the ground. “You’d know that if you’d come by sometimes. When I’m open, I mean. Not in the night to steal from me.”
Harold’s grip tightened a bit at the accusation. He held firm for a tense moment before letting the gun drop in the same manner Larry held his. There was an uncomfortable silence while the two men sized up the situation. Harold tossed his gun into the back of the pickup. “You know it ain’t loaded.”
“Mine either,” Larry grinned. He stepped up to the truck and looked into the bags Harold had stored away there. “That it?”
“What?” Pappy asked.
“That all you takin’?”
“All I need.”
“Okay,” Larry patted the other’s shoulder. “Next time come see me durin’ business hours.”
Pappy nodded. He opened the driver’s door and slid his small frame in behind the steering wheel. A minute later the truck was speeding up the highway. Larry watched it until it was gone from sight.
“What can I do for ya, Mr. Bolder?” Larry asked.
Allan stared into the distance where the truck had been.
“Mr. Bolder?”
“Oh, I, uh . . .,” Allan said. “Can I borrow the key to the cabin, the one you use when you check on the place for me?”
“Writin’ another one, eh?” Larry nodded knowingly. Allan forced a smile and nodded. The old grocer motioned for Allan to follow him back to the house. “You should really get yourself a car. Seems like a writer like yourself could afford one.”
“You know I don’t drive,” Allan said.
“And why is that again?” Larry asked.
“Never learned,” Allan answered. “That and the thought of it scares me to death.”
“You’re an odd one, Mr. Bolder,” Larry said. He emerged from the house with key in hand. “I’ll give you a ride and get you in. I can get a copy made for you this afternoon. You aren’t goin’ anywhere are you? I can drop it off in the mornin’.”
“Morning would be fine,” Allan said. “Morning would be perfect.”
Chapter 6
(The News)
The glow emitted by the alarm clock cast long shadows in the room where Sarah lay in bed. She stared at the irregular shapes trying to ascertain which items in the room caused them. She could honestly not care less where the shadows came from, but she was trying everything to keep her mind off Jimmy. It was well past midnight. He was late. Sure, being late was normal for the would-be actor. However, this was late even for him. He promised to call her after landing in L.A. and that should have happened hours ago.
Any other time, Sarah wouldn’t give it a second thought. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t help but worry. Disposing of Mike’s body, using his identity to fly to California; there were too many opportunities for things to go wrong, for Jimmy to be caught and arrested. Truthfully, Jimmy was not the best actor in the world. He wasn’t even good. He was just the only one Sarah happened to be sleeping with.
Her greatest fear had been that Mike actually knew the people Jimmy would be meeting with in Hollywood. If true, no amount of acting would get him through that. Now she worried that he wouldn’t even make it that far. She wondered how long he could sit in a cell before giving her up to authorities for a reduced sentence.
Falling asleep was never a problem for her, but tonight there was far too much at stake. She kept wondering was had happened, what was happening. Having identified all the shadows, a couple of which proved trickier than she expected, she focused on the ceiling and started counting the bumps of the popcorn ceiling she hated. When she finally drifted off, she slept like she was in a coma.
In the morning, the blaring alarm did not rouse her. The roar of the garbage truck making its painstakingly slow voyage down the street did not cause her to stir. Later in the morning, her face twitched as a fly lit on her cheek. Her hand moved with amazing speed, slapping at the fly, long gone. The impact on her face was solid and loud. She sat up in a panic and looked around the room for her assailant, searching for Allan holding the very bookend he had used on Mike.
The sunlight streaming through the window showed that she was alone in the room. Her eyes focused on the clock on the nightstand. It was two o’clock according to the digital readout. She blinked. She looked at the rays of sun where they heated small squares on the wood floor. Two o’clock would still be dark. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled down the hall to find another clock.
Each clock she found read two o’clock. She knew if the power shut off, the clocks reset to twelve. She located a battery-operated travel clock in Allan’s office. She stared at the face of the timepiece. To her dismay, it was just minutes past two o’clock. She had slept half the day away.
She checked the answering machine. No missed calls. She quickly dialed Jimmy’s phone and it went straight to voicemail.
“Jimmy,” she said tentatively. “Where are you? Call me.”
She hung up and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Her mind raced from thoughts of Jimmy being led away in handcuffs to images of him picking up a woman at the airport bar, getting drunk, screwing her and sleeping through the meeting. He could have made the meeting, received a check and decided to keep it for himself. He could be spending her money on some California floozy and she was helpless to do anything about it. She picked up the phone and dialed again.
“Jimmy, you better call me,” she demanded of his voicemail. “If you even think about double crossing me, I will find you.”
She cursed herself. If he was in police custody, she had just left enough evidence to make them suspect she was an accessory. The jealousy she was feeling surprised her. She wasn’t even fond of Jimmy. Great in the sack, sure. But having a conversation with him was a lot like talking to a five-year-old about physics. I
t was best to keep his mouth occupied and his brain switched to the off position. She decided what she was feeling was anger. Anger at the thought of Jimmy taking chances. He might forget his place and say something to the floozy. She began to pace. The Hollywood meeting should have concluded. If all went well Jimmy should be calling to tell her so. If not, well . . .
She dialed again, composing herself while she listened to the rings. “Jimmy. If you didn’t get the contract, or the check, it’s okay. Just call and let me know what’s going on.”
There was a knock and her heart skipped a beat. She stared at the door for a long time, until the knock sounded again. Heart racing, she moved toward it. Her pulse pounded in her ears. As she reached for the knob, a third knock caused her to jump and withdraw her outstretched hand. She grinned at her nervousness, gathered her composure, she tentatively opened the door.
“Hello, ma’am,” the postman said with an exaggerated smile. He held out an envelope and a pen. “Need a signature for this one.”
The postman left and her anger returned. Sarah slumped down into a chair letting the soft cushions envelop her. Her thoughts turned to the many things she would do to Jimmy if he was trying to cheat her out of what was hers. Whether he was running with her money, in police custody or on his way back on the next flight one thing was certain; she needed to be ready to leave town in a hurry. It could just be a matter of minutes that make the difference between freedom and spending the rest of her life behind bars.
She pulled a suitcase from the back of her closet and started packing it with essentials. Deciding what to take became an interesting exercise in evaluating what was important to her and what was not. She finished packing and rechecked her work. The suitcase contained favorite articles of clothing, jewelry and makeup; no pictures, no mementoes. The years she had spent with Allan were summed up in a few possessions. She put the suitcase back in the closet, ready to go in a moment’s notice.
In the kitchen, she started rummaging through the refrigerator for something to eat. It had been nearly twenty hours since dinner with Mike. If only he knew it was going to be his last meal, she bet he would have skipped the salad with its low-cal dressing and ordered a thick steak cooked medium rare. One never knows.
The Widow's Husband Page 4