by Charlie Cole
I pulled out onto the street and fed the car gas. It was good to be behind the wheel again, to feel some kind of control. Seemed like I had been playing catch-up since this thing started. I needed to get ahead of it somehow. Needed to make my next move without someone looking over my shoulder or weighing me down with some crusade.
My head still spun to digest everything. Tom Marlowe was alive. He hadn’t been killed in Afghanistan. I couldn’t put my finger on why he had covered up his own death, or at least, let us believe he was killed. Tom had been a professional soldier. He knew the dangers of serving under Ellis and yet, he blamed him for what had happened. Somehow Tom thought that I was the favored son.
I absentmindedly began humming “Fortunate Son” by Creedence Clearwater Revival. I took the turn onto the main road and leaned on the gas, letting the speed ease my mind.
Without much trouble, I found the cemetery. It was immense in all its stone garden glory. The place had been built in what must have been a massive woods at one point. I couldn’t imagine all of the trees being planted as saplings to garner the effect. There were willows and oaks across the property, allowing for great stretches of shade over some of the plots.
I saw the funeral procession waiting. I stopped short. I couldn’t do it. There was no possibility in my brain that would allow me to stand by my father’s graveside that day, knowing that my brother was responsible for his death. There was no debate. It was like asking me to breathe underwater. It was not a matter of really wanting to, but being afraid. It was a physical impossibility.
The procession was moving then, and I watched them go. The line of cars was led by the hearse as they made their way onto the back acreage of the property. I let them and found a service road that ran parallel. When they stopped, I stopped. I parked under an elm tree and killed the engine. I stepped out and clicked the door shut behind me. I pulled my Oakley sunglasses from my jacket pocket and let my eyes hide behind their impenetrable shade.
The graveside service was starting. I walked a bit closer to get a better view, but stopped before anyone could see me. I saw Blake Harrison there and Wallace. They did not look around for me. I didn’t know if I should feel disappointed that they didn’t miss me or glad that they trusted me to know what I was doing.
I saw the honor guard and remembered too late the ritual for military men. They stepped to their position and raised their rifles to the sky and fired a volley of rounds to the heavens. The shockwave traveled through the trees and hit me in the chest and I felt choked up. It happened again and I took a shuddering breath. I hated military funerals. Something about firing rifles when a military man died just rang false.
The honor guard stepped back, and the officiator moved in to say a few comforting words. It was better that I didn’t hear them. There was no comfort for Ellis Marlowe. His season had passed; his time was gone. I had as much ability to help him now as I would have had trying to stop the seasons from changing.
“Tommy, what have you done?” I whispered aloud. I looked around quickly, half expecting him to be there if only by virtue of speaking his name. He wasn’t, and I felt stupid because of my superstition.
Tom had promised to go after Grace. It was obvious to me that he had a plan, an agenda now. As much as I wanted to be in control, I wasn’t. Mom told me to see Grace and to make things right with her and she’d been right. Perhaps I would have seen Grace, taken my time and called first and tried to ease my way back into her life.
But Tom’s threat the night before changed everything. He was in my head. He knew where I was weak and I had to stop him. He’d tried to kill me when Chris Beck had died. I wished for a moment that it had ended there.
I groaned and looked up. The funeral party was dissipating,, the service over. A fair distance away, I saw the maintenance crew waiting, smoking their cigarettes, giving the family time to grieve, to say good-bye and to move on. Even in death, you have people who have plans for you, whether you want them or not.
I couldn’t watch anymore. I turned back to the car, walking back with my head down. I fished the key from my pocket. Key. Single. I only had the car. No home. No garage. Just the car. And for now, that was enough.
I didn’t see the crow perched on the hood of the Hemicuda until it cawed. I cursed and backpedaled. It was within arm’s reach, and I hadn’t even seen it. I was close enough to see its ebony eyes and satin black feathers. It looked at me like I had invaded its space. Like I was the trespasser, not him.
I stood, perturbed at my own reaction and the audacity of the bird. I nearly fell and brushed myself off. I felt oddly weirded out at being so close to the crow, but regained my composure.
“Get away from me,” I growled.
I walked toward the door. The crow hopped down and looked at me.
“What?”
Blink-blink.
The crow hopped closer, too close and pecked my boot.
“Dah, you freak!”
I kicked at the crow but it hopped back, away from me, still regarding me like I was in its space. Like I was driving his car. I moved to get in again and the crow let me go. It stood looking at me, head cocked to the side, like I was the oddity here.
I threw the car into reverse and backed out, careful of the crow. It stood in the cloud of dust and just before I pulled away, it took flight.
I gritted my teeth, and threw the car into gear and punched the gas. The road was waiting for me. It was where I was needed. It was where I belonged. And somewhere beyond the horizon, was my wife, Grace.
Open Road
I TURNED THE CAR SOUTH and headed out of town as quickly as I could. I drove away from the buildings and bridges and pushed the car in a general direction that made sense. There's a lot of things that I am not. I'm not a musician. I can't arrange flowers. I can't tell the difference between colors on bridesmaid dresses. But the one thing I can do, is find people.
In the day and age in which we live, seemed like everyone ran to their computer to find people. And there's nothing wrong with that. I get it. There's a lot of facts on that information highway. On the other hand, I learn things better, more easily at least, if I can put my hands on it, touch it, turn it upside down and see what makes it tick. I have this innate ability to find a person, a place, a neighborhood, a good steak joint. It's like a divining rod. I needed to find Grace, and she wasn't going to be in some internet database or chat room or blog.
The car took me where I needed to go, and I followed the expressway without a map or a real plan. South and south I drove, past diners and roadside stands and billboards offering everything from Gethsemane Church of God to razor blades to fireworks for sale. I drove past them all. At the interchange to Oklahoma, I slowed. Oklahoma. It felt right. It was the right area. I couldn't argue myself out of it.
I steered up the off ramp and found a diner away from the McDonald's and the food joints and gas stations. I pulled into the lot and parked. I looked around and found the parking lot empty, save for a pickup truck and a beaten, battered subcompact. I gave them ample room and parked the Cuda where I could keep an eye on it.
I swung the door open and planted one boot on the ground, then the other. My body was stiff and achy. I needed to work out the kinks of the drive, compiled with the kinks of tangling with a couple bad men in the same week. It wasn't how I usually spent my time. I stood from the car and felt the leather seat reluctantly release me from its hold. I ached from my calves up to my shoulders. I raised my arms overhead and heard my spine pop audibly. I groaned and twisted slowly in one direction and then the other.
I imagined myself in some cartoonish way, stretching and snapping my own spine, only to flop around in the parking lot, paralyzed. Okay, perhaps not the most child-friendly cartoon, but it brought a dark smile to my face.
The diner was decorated with license plates on the wall and photos on another. I took a seat at the counter and looked for the waitress. She was older than my mother and not the least interested in me. Her hair was a true p
roduct of the blue rinse and I tried not to stare at it.
"What'll ya have?" she asked as if there was nothing she could be less interested in.
"Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and a side of greens," I said without looking at a menu.
She wrote it all down without batting an eye.
"Coffee?"
"Of course."
She turned and grabbed a pot of molten java and spilled it into a stoneware mug and the saucer beneath. She slid it to me on the countertop and I had to stop it from landing in my lap.
I looked up to say something, but she was gone, jamming the ticket up on the pass-through for the kitchen crew to deal with. The coffee was hot and rich and made my eyes pop in my skull. Sweet elixir to the drivers on these roads, I imagined.
My eyes wandered across the place, taking in the sights, anything of interest that might give me some direction. I kept returning to the wall of pictures. I stood and walked over with my cup of coffee in my hand. The pictures were mostly group photos. Friends, travelers, people passing through. But there was something else beyond what lay on the surface. I looked closer.
Here and there were groups of people posing together. I recognized something in them. There were groups of them, handfuls of people who were tight clusters that seemed to have the camaraderie of having worked together. No, it was more than that. I had seen the same look in photos that my father had brought home of the men he served with. It was the look of people who had seen something truly terrifying and come out the other side of it.
“You going to eat today?”
My food was ready and Martha was calling me. Martha was the moniker her name tag gave her, not me.
“Who are all these people?” I asked, waving my coffee cup at the wall of pictures.
“Fools… idiots…” she grumbled.
Martha didn’t walk away though. In fact, a wry smile was warming on her face. She wanted to talk about this. I waited, hoping to drag her out. She caved in under half a minute.
“What you see there are folks that passed through,” she said. She came around the counter to stand next to me. She seemed impossibly short, as if life was wearing her down to a nub. “But those people… those are the crazy ones.”
“How so?” I asked. I sipped the coffee. “Great coffee, by the way.”
“It’s dreck, son. Don’t patronize me.”
I laughed and nearly blew hot coffee out of my nose. This amused her to a great extent, so she went on.
“These people,” she pointed with her crooked finger and with unerring accuracy picked out the photos I had been scrutinizing. “These people are the storm chasers.”
“Storm chasers?” I asked. “People actually do that?”
“People will do anything for a thrill,” she said. “Most of them are what I said…”
“Fools? Idiots?”
“You pay attention.”
“I try,” I said.
“Most of them show up out here in Tornado Alley with their mama’s car and a video camera and a bunch of their brainless friends and try to film a tornado,” she said.
“Why?” I asked. It seemed the obvious question.
“To put up on the internet I guess,” she shrugged. “Post it on MyTube or YouSpace or whatever the hell it is that kids do these days.”
“What did you do in your day, Martha?” I asked.
She leaned in close.
“I tipped over cows while they were sleeping,” she whispered.
We laughed at that.
“You were a rebel, Martha.”
“There are some of these people that… well, I don’t know if they really know what they’re doing, but they’re educated. As much as a weatherman in a car can be educated, I guess,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, some of these storm chasers come from schools, big universities, and they have all kinds of weather equipments and radar and whoooo, anything you could imagine,” she said. “They seem to know what they’re doing.”
“Have you seen one of them come through lately?” I asked.
“You just missed one,” she said. “Came through this morning.”
“Know where they were headed?”
“Usually these folks are scattered to the four winds, but this group…” she thought. “They mentioned heading for Tulsa. Some of the worst tornadoes are there, and the weather’s supposed to turn hairy.”
“And they were the good ones?” I asked. “I mean, the educated ones?”
She nodded, but had a critical look in her eye.
“You’re not one of them, are you?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” I answered. “If it rains, I hide in the cellar.”
She laughed at that. I pulled a worn picture from my wallet and held it out to her.
“Oh, she’s pretty,” she said. “Who is she?”
“She’s one of the good ones, ma’am.”
I sat at the counter and ate my food quietly. Martha poured coffee and told me about every team of storm chasers that came through that was worth anything, as she said. The ones with some sense came with money and equipment, and they used a little precaution to protect their investments. The glory hounds didn't care and rushed into the fray. Stories were rampant of storm chasers who got too close trying to get the right shot and getting pummeled by debris or worse. She wouldn't elaborate, but I could imagine.
The meal was delicious and filling. I tipped heavily and thanked Martha wholeheartedly. I walked out of the diner and saw the clouds in the sky beginning to darken. Nothing imminent. Not immediately. But in time. The wind was picking up, and I looked up the road in one direction, then the other. I spotted a gas station not far off.
Back in the car, I fired up the engine and let her grumble. I never got tired of it. I checked my mirrors and backed out in a tight 180 degrees before pulling out of the lot. I hit the pavement and cruised up the road to the gas station. It looked like it had been bombed at some point, but the rough exterior was more likely due to the weather than to domestic terrorists or mischief makers. The place had been a service station at one point, but with bigger operations moving in, the owner gave up the losing battle and remodeled the place into a convenience store. Which was exactly what I needed.
The interior of the place was only slightly less ramshackle than the exterior. A cooler was laboring against one wall and I retrieved several bottles of water. I surveyed the place for anything remotely nutritional. I gave up all hope of health and fell back to something that would at least fuel the machine. I grabbed a couple candy bars with nuts and headed for the check out. The cashier was also the owner and on first appraisal looked to be dead. I cocked my head and considered checking for a pulse when he let out a low wheezing snore from under the brim of his baseball cap. His breath blew at his shaggy mustache and smelled of Fritos. I dropped the water bottles on the counter and he snortled back to life.
"What do you have there?" he said before his eyes adjusted.
I wondered if he always awoke that way, blurting out the same warning greeting even in his own bedroom.
"Hi there," I said, intentionally too loud.
He looked at me like I had offended him by trying to engage in actual conversation.
"Hi," he croaked. "What do you have there?"
"Couple water bottles and some candy bars," I said easily.
He grunted in agreement.
"You have many of those storm chasers come through these parts?" I asked.
He didn't look up, but let out a low whistle.
"Yep. Foolhardy individuals, they are," he said.
"Couldn't agree more," I said. "I'm not from around here. Do you have a map? I don't really want to cross paths with somebody looking for trouble like that."
"Can't say as I blame you," he said.
"Can you show me where they go?" I asked. "On a map? Do you sell maps?"
His bushy eyebrows perked up at the possibility of a sale. He reached behind him and pulled a
sun-faded map from a rickety rack. He spread it across the counter on top of my items and smoothed it with his cracked and weathered hands.
"Let's see here," he mumbled. He began to read the names, remembering them, adding some that were not on the map.
Suddenly, he jabbed his finger at the map, scratching his fingernail across the surface.
"Here," he said. "They were going here."
"You sure?"
"They bought all my Mountain Dew," he said. This was a landmark moment for him. "They looked like they came from Harvard and drank all of my Mountain Dew."
He was shaking his head in disbelief.
"How do I get there?" I asked.
He pointed up the road with one craggy, arthritic finger.
"There's a storm coming in fast," he said. "It doesn't take much around here. They'll come running, looking for glory and carnage. When they do, don't be there."
I nodded my thanks and paid him for the supplies.
I carried everything to the car and dumped it inside on the passenger seat. I turned over the engine and gunned it out of the parking lot, following the direction that he said the storm chasers would go.
The Cuda was begging for gas and with the wide open road, I could not resist. My boot was heavy and I crushed the gas pedal to the floor. I watched the telephone poles click by in a rapidly increasing rhythm. The center line was a golden blur. The road stretched to the horizon and disappeared into an infinite point that could never be reached. If I still believed in a heaven, this would be it.
I saw it then, just beyond the rise in the road. The clouds were beginning to slowly turn. It was almost indistinguishable at first. It looked like a gentle cloud formation, then it began to turn on itself, rotating, circling like sharks around their prey.
It was an unearthly whirlpool in the sky, a vortex beginning to form, to gain strength. I saw it as clear as day, knew the danger involved and imagined the worst case scenario, but could not bring myself to look away. Every synapse of my brain screamed to run. Get out of there. Turn the car around and hit the gas. Head for daylight and never look back. I fought against, resisted instinct and preservation and forged ahead into the heart of the best.