Damascus Road

by Charlie Cole

  In the back of the garage was a kitchen where I found Wallace cooking bacon, eggs and pancakes. Coffee was brewing. God bless him.

  “Good morning,” I croaked.

  “I’m sure it is somewhere,” Wallace said with a grin over his shoulder. “You slept to noon, but it still does a soul good to have a hearty breakfast.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” I said. “I’m sorry…about the way I acted last night.”

  Wallace plated the food and poured me a cup of coffee without offering me cream or sugar. It was fine that way, but it told me something about the man. His generosity was done on his terms; this was no hotel.

  “No worries,” he said. “You acted like a fool. You were right about that. But you manned up and admitted to it, and that’s what counts.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “Thank you for breakfast.”

  “Blake asked me to feed you, otherwise you would have been on your own,” Wallace said, but he had a smile that seemed to indicate that he found a little humor in this.

  I tasted the eggs, then the pancakes, the bacon, the coffee and had to force myself to slow down. I was ravenous. I looked around the kitchen while I chewed, and Wallace watched me surveying his place.

  “Something on your mind?”

  “What is this place?” I asked. “It looks like a firehouse.”

  “It was,” he admitted. “They built a new building down the block when they outgrew the space, and I bought this one when I retired from the fire department.”

  I nodded, encouraging him to continue.

  “I restore classic cars, some of the modern ones as well; and occasionally, I take on a special project,” Wallace said, stabbing his fork in my direction and gave me a lop-sided grin.

  I nodded, hanging my head in defeat.

  “What’s on the agenda for today?” I asked.

  “That’s up to you,” Wallace said. “But I would wager that you’re going to need parts for that fine automobile out there.”

  “Yes, sir. Safe bet.”

  “Do you have clothes other than what’s on your back?” he asked. He wrinkled his nose slightly and chuckled. I had no defense. The shower had still eluded me.

  “I don’t,” I admitted. “Can we go shopping?”

  “That we can. Finish up and I’ll meet you in the truck, and we’ll go for a ride.”

  I cleaned my plate and swallowed my coffee which was so strong that it gave me a jolt of caffeine and a few coffee grounds at the bottom of my cup. I rinsed them in the sink and grabbed my jacket, walking out to look at the car.

  The ‘Cuda in the light of day was in sad shape. Not irreparable by any stretch of the imagination, but she needed bodywork and a paint job. Paint. It was time to make a change. I pulled a dog-eared notepad from my pocket and made a list with a pencil stub.

  Wallace tapped the horn twice, and I hurried along. I finished my list and jogged out to his truck. It was a pristine Ford F-350 in royal red. I jumped up into the cab and without a word, we took off.

  We shopped that day, only talking when we needed to. The first stop was the junkyard, and I found the replacement quarter panel and door that I needed. The next stop was an auto supply store.

  “Do you have a paint booth in your place?” I asked.

  Wallace looked at me like I was from Neptune.

  “Does a duck quack?”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  I bought Black Velvet paint, as well as masks and paint suits. The ‘Cuda was about to go dark.

  The next stop was to accommodate my less than pristine wardrobe selection. I grabbed shirts and pants and necessities, as well as workout clothes and shaving equipment. I dropped everything into a duffle bag. Wallace paid in cash as he did at every stop from a bank envelope separate from his own pocket.

  Our last stop before returning to the garage was to buy me a suit. I didn’t have time for custom tailoring, but they did it anyway. The suit was simple and dark. Ellis would have been proud.

  We returned to the garage after a short stop at a sandwich shop. Wallace vowed not to cook more than one meal a day for me. I thanked him nonetheless.

  “Do you mind if I work out first,” I asked. “It’s been a while and I could use the exercise.”

  Wallace shook his head and tossed my sandwich in the fridge.

  “You want to work on the car after lunch?” he asked.

  “Sounds great.”

  I took my clothes purchases upstairs and changed into some sweatpants, t-shirt, and jogging shoes. I came down the stairs and took off running. I didn’t have a destination, just a time in my head. I counted the blocks and lengthened my stride to eat through them faster. My body still ached from the jail beating, but I knew that a workout had a way of focusing my mind, putting me back on track.

  I ran three miles in just over twenty minutes, looping my way back to the garage. Once there, I found the overhead door open, so I jogged inside and went straight to crunches. Again and again I hit each repetition, then I rolled back into leg raises until my stomach was on fire. I rolled over and started into pushups, until I felt the muscles screaming in my chest. I switched to one handed pushups and hit five before switching. In the moment, I had forgotten about my recently dislocated shoulder, so the pain jarred me back to reality.

  I switched into shadow boxing, jabbing, circling, footwork, then combinations, then into a seamless blend of a mixed bag of fighting styles I picked up over the years. Krav Maga that I learned from an Israeli friend out East. Savate that I picked up from a Frenchman in Quebec. Muay Thai that I learned from an immigrant merchant who I paid to teach me, so he could afford to bring his family over to the States.

  At last, I stopped, breathing hard and covered in sweat. I realized that Wallace was watching me.

  “Are we going to work on the car now?” he asked.

  I nodded, too winded to answer.

  “Good.”

  He tossed me a water bottle and I caught it, but nearly lost my balance. Wallace had the kindness to walk out of the room before he started to laugh at me.

  We worked on the car the rest of the day. I grabbed bites to eat while I could. I finished my sandwich, drank my water bottle and grabbed another. I was ready to work then and gave myself over to it.

  We replaced the door and the quarter panel. I inspected the engine and aside from a tune up and an oil change, everything seemed to be fine there.

  “Fuel line has a leak,” I said while I was under the car.

  Wallace grunted.

  Fifteen minutes later he handed me a new fuel line. I never heard him leave.

  I kept working, pulled dents and sanded the bodywork. I tuned the engine as I went.

  It was dark out, and I hadn’t noticed until I smelled pizza.

  Wallace paid from the same bank envelope, and we ate in silence over a pizza with three kinds of cheese, sausage, mushrooms, pepperoni, and olives. The aroma was intoxicating, and I ate three slices before I realized it.

  Leaving me the rest of the pizza, Wallace went over to set up the paint booth. My mind was a wasteland, and nothing was being built there. There was nothing that I thought of other than the car. Blake Harrison had been right. The car had kept me from going mad. From pondering on what I shouldn’t be thinking about in the first place. I just kept focused on what was in front of me. Everything else would be all right.

  I joined Wallace at the paint booth and zipped up my one piece suit. We taped off the car, windows, door handles, anything we didn’t want to paint. It was a tedious job, but one we did in silence. We had the comfort of knowing that the other person totally understood what needed to be done. No detail went unattended. I took one last look at the Hemicuda in the yellow finish, now with a door and a quarter panel that didn’t even match that.

  The paint gun was in my hand while I attached the air hose. Wallace and I looked at one another and nodded. We went at the Cuda with the paint guns, spraying black paint in wide strokes, circling in perfect
sync as if we had done this all our lives together.

  The words that caught in my head then were not the scripture of my salvation or of Peter when he said that love covers over a multitude of sins. No…

  What filled my mind that day was the song I’d last heard on the stretch of open road with the window down and the radio playing. Through the hum of static as I caught the broadcast on the edge of its transmission range, I heard Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones…

  I see a red door and I want it painted black

  No colors anymore, I want them to turn black

  The yellow paint turned dark and then disappeared under the midnight sheen. I did not stop moving. I did not leave an inch of it uncovered.

  I see a line of cars and they’re all painted black

  With flowers and my love both never to come back

  I was humming behind my mask and then the words came to me and I began to sing, louder and louder until that was the only sound in my head. Not the whispering of conscience or the conviction of God or the voice of my father. Only the lyrics.

  I look inside myself and see my heart is black

  I see my red door and it has been painted black

  I skipped to the side and did a little spin, imitating ole Mick up on the stage. It felt right. Nothing else to think about, to worry about. I ran around the Cuda, covering it in Velvet Black. Every inch. None of the old color left behind. Only the total absence of light.

  Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts

  It’s not easy facin’ up when your whole world is black

  I killed the spray gun and looked up to admire my work. The car was perfect, exactly the way I had hoped it would be. I smiled and pulled the hood off my head along with the air mask.

  I looked around. Finally, I saw Wallace. He was standing back against the wall, his mask in his hand. He was watching me with an expression of shock and horror. My little performance must have taken him off guard.

  “Sorry,” I said. “The song…you know, that song? It’s a…I used to listen to it…”

  Wallace dropped the paint gun and threw his mask on the floor. He turned and walked away without saying another word to me.

  “What?” I asked.

  WALLACE AND I HAD DINNER LATER THAT NIGHT. We sat in silence. He couldn’t be bothered to look at me, and I didn’t especially want to find out what was bothering him. I cracked first.

  “How do you know Blake Harrison?” I asked.

  Wallace looked up at me as if I’d spoken in tongues. I stared him down, not saying a word, waiting him out. He sighed and started making another sandwich.

  “Blake’s a good man,” he said.

  “And?”

  “And I help when I can,” Wallace said.

  “How’s he been a good man?” I asked. “What do you mean by that?”

  “James Marlowe, you of all people should know better than to judge a book by its cover,” Wallace said, jabbing a finger in my direction.

  “Well said, sir.”

  We sat quietly for a moment.

  “So, the wake is tomorrow?” I asked.

  Wallace grunted, nodding. He swallowed hard.

  “Blake’s going to call you,” he said.

  “Hmm.”

  We sat and chewed. I made another peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  The phone trilled. Wallace leaned over and looked at the caller ID. He grabbed the handset and tossed it to me. I caught it and answered.

  “Hello?”

  “James, how are you doing?” It was Blake.

  “Fine, you?”

  “Doing well. Just wanted to let you know that the wake has been set up for tomorrow night,” Blake said. “The funeral home arrangements have been made. Is there anything that you knew your father wanted?”

  “I didn’t… I mean we didn’t… um, no. There’s nothing that I can think of.”

  “I’m sorry, James,” Blake said. “I know this is difficult. Will you be driving to the funeral home? Or should I pick you up?”

  “Why don’t you come get me,” I decided. “I don’t know my way around town. I’d appreciate your help.”

  “Sounds good,” Blake said.

  “Any word on the other thing I asked you about?”

  “Actually, yes,” Blake said. “I convinced Agent Walters that this inquiry was essential to my security. He put somebody on it and got an answer back.”

  “What’s the verdict?” I asked.

  “There was a name signed to the manifest that didn’t match with the employee records,” Blake said. “I don’t know if it means anything to you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nathan Cain,” Blake said.

  I mimed a pen and paper. Wallace reached behind him and found some, placing them in front of me.

  “Spell the last name for me?” I asked.

  “C-A-I-N.”

  “Like the brother of Abel?” I asked.

  “Exactly right.”

  “Thank you Blake. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  “Goodnight, James.”

  I rang off the phone. The letters on the page were taunting me, secrets to share, just beyond my grasp. I traced the letters with the pen.

  “Everything okay?” Wallace asked.

  “No,” I replied. “Not at all.”

  That night, the dreams were back in full force, and I could not escape them no matter what I tried to do. I fell into an uneasy sleep, but awoke with a jolt every hour remembering only the most fragmented images of my dreams.

  Ellis Marlowe in life...in death…flames…screams…

  Car crashes and bar beatings…

  I would wake in a cold sweat and move to the bathroom to splash water on my face, get a drink, calm my nerves, and finally return to bed, only to have the whole process repeat itself again and again.

  Finally, I gave up and sat in the one chair in the room. I grabbed my coat and rummaged through the inside pocket until I pulled out a worn leather Bible. I opened it and began reading, then stopped, flipped the book over and threw it onto the bed in frustration. I sat in the dark and stared at the wall.

  Blake Harrison could not come soon enough. I put on my suit and stood outside, waiting for him to arrive. His car pulled up, and Agent Walters opened the door for me, and I got in.

  “James, you look nice,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir. The suit is very nice.”

  “I’m sorry again about your dad. Ellis was…” Blake would have said more if I’d let him, so I didn’t.

  “Blake, please,” I said. “We’re friends, right? In whatever odd way, we’ve become friends, haven’t we?”

  “Yes, James, I’d like to think so.”

  “Then please understand that there’s no need to tell me those things,” I said. “Since you’re my friend, I would expect and depend upon your sympathies. So, you don’t have to tell me. It’s enough that you’re here. Okay?”

  I didn’t say it to be smarmy or rude, but it was true and needed to be said.

  “I completely understand,” he said with a smile, then looked out the window and left me alone with my thoughts, which is what I wanted in the first place.

  We arrived at the funeral home just as the sun was setting. I walked in with Blake and we were introduced to the funeral director. Having been to Chris Beck’s service, it struck me that these people were all very similar, cut from the same cloth. Understated and respectful, guiding the agenda of the day and herding the sheep of the mourning family. I shook my head and tried to dispel my negative thoughts, but they would not go.

  Blake and I walked in, and the funeral director, Mr. Eames, showed us Ellis Marlowe in his casket. I measured each step as I approached, unsure if I wanted to make this last longer or just get it over with. Before I could decide, I was there; and we stood looking down at my father.

  I heard Blake and Eames whisper to each other, but ignored them.

  “He looks good.”

  “He’s in a
much better place now.”

  “The flowers are very nice.”

  I couldn’t stop staring at his face. Ellis’ face. Last I had seen him was in the trauma room. Indeed, they had done a good job of freshening him up, but this was not my father. As they said, he was not there. In body, but not in spirit.

  “Thank you, Mr. Eames,” I said without looking at him. “Blake, I need to…”

  I didn’t finish the sentence, but rather gestured toward the open foyer and sitting room of the funeral home.

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Marlowe,” Eames said. “Sit wherever you please during the visitation. Mr. Harrison will come get you just before service.”

  I nodded my thanks and walked away, casting one last look over my shoulder toward Ellis’ body. It was the last time I would see him, I vowed. Of that I had no doubt. I had no more tears to shed. The pain was still raw and red and clawing at my chest, but I had locked myself in.

  I walked out of the chapel and down a wide hallway. For the first time I appreciated the place. The wide banister on the steps, the expensive furnishings, the polished wood. The place was meant for comfort. Chairs and couches meant for sitting and holding one another while you sobbed quiet consolations.

  I found a chair in the corner of the room and slumped down into it. The fabric was soft, the cushion firm. It was a high-backed wing chair. I sank down and put my chin on my fist and waited to watch the people come in.

  They came relatively quickly then, a steady stream of strangers, come to say good-bye to my father. I did not know them. Not a soul. I hadn’t had the foresight to notify Tyrell or Bill Beck and I didn’t want to trouble them to come out of some sense of duty.

  From where I sat, I could see almost everyone as they entered, but they did not look for me. Attendants pointed the way to the chapel, and the mourners dutifully followed.

  And then, I saw her. Tall woman with dark hair and a black dress. She had to be in her fifties or more by now, but she looked almost two decades younger. Not from plastic surgery or chemical peels, but from a life of hard work that was occasionally hidden behind Sunday best.

  She looked right at me and I say her grey eyes fix on me, narrow, then look away. She walked quickly, her heels making a rapid retreat toward the chapel. I stood unsteady. It happened so fast, had I seen her? Or was it a trick of the mind?