Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One

by Perry P. Perkins

  Marking her place, midway through the book of Psalms, was a photograph of a young woman standing waist-deep in a pool of water. In her arms was a small, pink-wrapped bundle, and standing beside her, with one hand on her shoulder and his other holding an open Bible, was a much younger Guy Williams. The picture, she knew, had been taken soon after her birth, the year that Kathy Belanger had moved to Bowie. Her mother looked so young, her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing jeans and a white cotton shirt, knotted at her waist. She looked, in fact, very much like Cassie did now, eighteen years later. The picture had been taken with a zoom lens and the three of them filled much of the frame. She had always laughed at the long, feathered hairstyle that Guy had worn in the early eighties and she would tease him and ask if he still carried a banana-comb in his back pocket. Her pastor would shake his finger at her with a mock frown and say that if he had, he would paddle her with it.

  In the photograph, her mother was smiling as she held her newborn daughter for dedication, but Cassie could see the smile on her lips didn't reach her eyes. Her gaze held a sad, scared, far-off look. The arms that held her baby clutched protectively, not only from the river that swirled around them, but also from something else, some secret fear. Cassie had seen this look, off and on, her whole life, usually in those rare times when she pressed Kathy for information about her father.

  "He's not someone you want to know, Cass," she would say softly, "best to leave it alone."

  Her voice would be soft, but there was steel in her tone that warned Cassie to drop the subject. Once, when her mother had spent weeks deathly ill with pneumonia, fading in and out of delirium from the fever and medications, she had turned her head on her pillow one evening and, and looked strangely at Cassie.

  "I was all alone, Baby.” She had said. “I was young and scared and I didn’t have anywhere to go. He was handsome and funny, and he said that he loved me; that he’d take care of me.”

  Tears had trickled unnoticed down her scarlet cheeks.

  “You may be the only good thing that Bill Beckman’s done in his whole life…"

  Cassie had been ten years old at the time. She was alone with her mother while Grace had run to the store to fill a prescription for antibiotics. The girl had sat, terrified, by her mother's bedside, wiping her face over and over with a faded washcloth as the woman tossed and thrashed. She wasn't even sure that her mother had known she was in the room, and Kathy's words were never mentioned again after she recovered.

  She had looked long and hard in the mirror that night, trying to imagine what her father might look like. She definitely had her mother's dark, almost black hair, but her complexion was ruddy where her mother was very fair, almost pale. She had her mother's high cheekbones, but fuller lips and an upturned knob of a chin that gave her face a heart-shaped, impish look.

  Cassie had cried herself to sleep that night, quietly under the covers so Grace, who was sleeping on the living room couch, wouldn't hear. Beneath her pillow was the small pink diary her mother had given her for her birthday that August. Before turning out the light, Cassie had carefully printed, "Bill Beckman, my daddy" on the inside cover. She had underlined the name twice and then locked the little book back up with a tiny brass key. Somewhere in the Williams' attic, back in Bowie, that little pink and white diary rested in a cardboard box with Cassie's name on it.

  The photo was starting to fade around the edges. It was her favorite picture of her mother who, though sad, had been so young and beautiful, holding her baby safe, as she was dedicated to God.

  Cassie closed her eyes, fighting off the nagging voices of fear and doubt, and prayed.

  "Okay Lord," she whispered, "I'm trying to trust with all my heart; I hope I'm not doing something really stupid here." Cassie clenched her fists in her lap, fighting tears, "Tell me what to say when I find him, show me what you want me to do…" She paused for a long moment, unsure of what else to say.

  "Please keep me safe and direct my path, amen." She sighed, repeating the words her mother had used each night, and felt little satisfaction from her prayers.

  Chapter Four

  Cassie opened her eyes as a great, lumbering truck rounded the corner slowing and passed her in a cloud of exhaust. The license plate read Georgia.

  She picked up her Bible once more and, after carefully removing her photograph-bookmark, continued to read. An hour later, Cassie closed the book and stood to stretch. A half-dozen vehicles had pulled into the truck stop parking lot since she had sat down, but none of them had plates from any western states.

  She was just considering a cup of coffee in the café when a dusty blue cargo van pulled off the road and into the lot, washing her in the beams of its headlights as it passed.

  Cassie blinked, looked at the rear of the van, and then blinked again. There, on the bumper, half hidden under at thick patina of dust was a yellow bumper sticker that read, Water Music Festival 1997, Long Beach, Washington.

  Cassie forgot, for a moment, just how to breathe, as her heart began to hammer against her ribs. She gave her old Bible a quick squeeze as she stowed it back in her bag and, glancing upward, whispered, "Thank you!"

  The van had pulled into the darkened lot to the rear of the café, between two big semi-trucks. Cassie watched, from the safety of the shadows as a tall, bulky man with close-cropped white hair, stepped from the van, stretched for a moment, and crossed the parking lot towards the truck stop.

  Cassie watched him as he walked away, noting that he wore a faded brown bomber jacket with a white turtleneck underneath, so she could find him again once he was inside. Once the man was gone and the door had swung closed behind him, Cassie crept across the lot to the van. Passing behind several of the towering semis, some with extended living quarters that had lights shining through the tiny curtained windows, she stopped behind a carrier full of new Toyotas and listened for the sound of footsteps. She could hear nothing but the soft stomping and lowing from the cattle-truck to her left and the bass hum of a huge refrigeration unit to her right.

  Realizing that she would probably draw more suspicion, were she to be seen skulking, Cassie straightened up and walked quickly to the faded blue Chevy. Up close, it looked like it had seen more than its share of the open road.

  Both the front and rear bumpers were pitted with small dents and the blue passenger-side front fender had been replaced with one painted primer-gray. All four tires, though, appeared to be fairly new and the van didn’t have that miasma of burning oil that surrounded poorly kept vehicles after a long drive.

  Coming around the far side, she could see the sliding door had been replaced as well, matching the gray fender. Through the dusty glass, Cassie could see the dashboard was littered with maps, magazines, and what appeared to be several days’ worth of fast-food wrappers. She double-checked the bumper sticker and, sure enough, it still read Long Beach, WA. From her new vantage point, she could see what she hadn’t been able to make out as the van had passed her. The grime-coated license plate was from Washington as well.

  Cassie took a deep breath and leaned against the back of the van for a moment. Planningto ask someone if, oh by the way, did they mind driving her halfway across the country, had been one thing. Now, faced with the reality of the moment, she actually had to walk up to a total stranger who, oh by the way, hopefully wasn’t a serial killer, and ask for a ride.

  Once she had gathered her courage, Cassie glanced at the rear window and, after wiping some of the dirt off with her sleeve, peered into the back of the van.

  In the darkness, she could make out several closed cardboard boxes, a couple of sleeping bags and an even larger collection of drive-thru refuse. Stepping away, Cassie glanced around and, seeing no one, stashed her duffel bag under the dumpster behind the café. After pulling some flattened cardboard over the top of it and checking from several angles, Cassie nodded, satisfied that it would remain hidden for the short time she was inside.

  Continuing around the side of the building to the
front door, Cassie passed though the tiled entryway, lined with newspaper boxes and penny-candy machines, around the Please Wait to be Seated sign, and into the restaurant.

  Most of the coffee bar and many of the booths were taken by lone occupants. Truckers, who read their books or magazines, ate in silence, or just dozed over their coffee cups. Near the end of the aisle, Cassie could see the back of a white-haired head above the seat cushions and the empty arm of a brown leather jacket hanging off the bench on the far side of the table.

  She took a deep breath as she walked tremulously toward the man. The smell of French fries and strong coffee dominated the room. Cassie tried to focus on these observations and not on the knot that was developing in her stomach. She reached the table, turned to face the driver of the van and, suddenly, found herself unable to speak. The man looked to be in his early fifties, his face weather-lined and tanned. He kept reading his book for a moment or two and then, after slowly slipping a finger between the pages, he glanced up at Cassie over his reading glasses.

  As soon as his gaze met hers he seemed to jerk slightly in his seat, his eyes grew wide, his face pale, then he blinked, and whatever had come over him passed. Head to toe, his eyes took her in for a long moment and, under any other circumstances, Cassie would have blushed, but something in his manner made it clear that his stare was nothing inappropriate.

  “Did you forget your uniform?” he asked, in a soft baritone, “and my coffee?”

  Cassie stood, blinking and dumbfounded, for a moment, trying to decipher what the man was talking about.

  “No,” Cassie stammered, “I’m not here…I mean, I don’t work here. I’m not a waitress!”

  “Oh?”

  “No, I’m not. I was just wondering if you minded, I mean if I could…is that your blue van out there?” Cassie spluttered.

  “It is.” He replied, still looking directly into her eyes. His expression was serious, his voice flat, but his eyes had begun to twinkle with amusement.

  “Okay,” Cassie began, taking a deep breath, “Let me try again. I saw that your van has Washington plates, are you from Long Beach?”

  “I am.”

  Okay,” she repeated, “um…are you heading back that way?”

  “Eventually,” he said, his eyes twinkling even more.

  Pausing, Cassie tried to collect her thoughts before asking the next question. This was quickly becoming a most frustrating conversation. If only the man would stop staring at her and start answering her questions with more than just monosyllabic responses. Cassie decided to try another route.

  “Can I…do you mind if I sit down?” she asked.

  At this, the man’s stony expression finally broke and the corners of his mouth curled into a slight, sardonic, smile.

  “Aren’t I a little old for you, kid?”

  Cassie felt her cheeks grow hot as she both sputtered and stammered, in an attempt to reply.

  “No!” she almost shouted, lowering her voice quickly when heads at the nearest tables turned their way, “I mean yes! I mean…that’s not what I mean. I just need to get to Washington!”

  Cassie felt herself on the verge of tears. Her head was spinning from the convoluted dialog, and the knot in her stomach had tightened into a hard, solid ball that threatened even further unpleasantries if she didn’t find herself in a less stressful situation soon. It was such a simple question, why couldn't she just ask it?

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks…” he said softly.

  “Huh?” she replied, wondering if she could possibly sound as stupid to this stranger as she did to herself; she was fairly certain that she must.

  “Hamlet”

  “I…uh…” Another brilliant response, would this never end?She would happily walk all the way to Oysterville, barefoot, if it meant that she could just get away from this table and hide her crimson, burning face.

  “You do know who Shakespeare was?” he asked, closing his book and seeming genuinely interested in her for the first time. Cassie was able to keep her mouth shut this time, and was grateful for that small blessing.

  “Well,” the man said at last, “if you’ve never heard of Shakespeare, I don’t want to know. Have a seat.”

  Cassie sat.

  A moment of silence stretched into two and finally the man leaned forward and, waving a hand in front of her eyes, asked in that same low voice, “Well?”

  “Um….” Cassie groped for an answer, “Thank you?”

  He laid a weary hand over his eyes and sighed.

  “Okay,” he said, looking up and smiling for the first time. “Let’s try rowing this boat in another direction, shall we? Can you give me one good reason why a pretty young gal like yourself would be doing something as stupendously idiotic as asking to ride halfway across creation with a strange man?”

  At last, Cassie’s embarrassment had found its limit and, unable to become any more humiliated, she found herself growing annoyed at the man’s seemingly unending sarcasm.

  “And are you?” she asked, her eyes starting to spark.

  Now it was the stranger’s turn to look confused. “Am I what?” He asked.

  “A strange man?” Cassie answered sweetly, with the same smile that had driven the cashier at the Greyhound ticket desk nearly to distraction. Two could play this little game!

  The man across the table merely looked amused. “The tales I could tell you, kid.” Cassie knew she shouldn’t, but the haughty way he had quoted Hamlet, as if she were some ignorant country bumpkin who had never read a book, had stung. Cassie Belanger, as any number of the fine folk in Bowie, Arizona could tell you, didn't like to be stung.

  “Tales told by an idiot?” she quoted, in that same sweet voice, “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing?”

  That caught the man off guard. “Wha…” he started.

  “Macbeth?”

  He gaped at her.

  “You doknow who Shakespeare was?” she finished innocently.

  Silence descended on the table, and Cassie was sure that she would soon resume her wait at the bus stop. Suddenly the man slammed both hands down on the tabletop, threw back his head, and roared with laughter. This went on for some time until, finally, Cassie began to giggle herself as the older man's face turned bright red and he pounded the table, snorting for air.

  Soon, despite the curious glances from the diners around them, both were doubled over, laughing uproariously, tears streaming down their faces. Cassie laughed and cried at the same time, her sides aching, and her breath coming in short hitching gasps. The knot in her stomach loosened as some measure of the tension of the last week began to ease. It felt as though a small hole had pierced the dam within her as the pressure that had begun to leak out through the cracks and fissures of her spirit dissipated.

  Their laughter was finally interrupted by the waitress who quickly set a cup of black coffee and a piece of apple-pie in front of the red-faced man, slipping the bill under the edge of his plate. She raised a questioning eyebrow, glancing back and forth between the two of them as they tried to regain their composure, shrugging, she turned and began to walk away.

  "Miss," he said, "I'm sorry…" He snorted again and wiped his streaming eyes, "I think we're going to need another piece of pie here."

  Turning to Cassie, he asked, "What's your poison? Dessert's on me."

  Cassie sniffled, trying to stop the giggle in her voice.

  "Apple would be great, thanks!"

  The waitress gave them one more long look and then hurried away. He let out an explosive breath, mopping his face with his napkin. "Well," he said, still chuckling, "I guess I deserved that; I was starting to get a little full of myself there…"

  Cassie decided to strike, as her mother would say, while the iron was hot.

  "So?" she asked.

  "What?" he answered, this time seeming to have genuinely forgotten the original question.

  "So," she repeated, "are you heading back to Long Beach?"

  "You first,"
he said, "why would you be doing something as dangerous as bumming rides at a truck stop?"

  "No choice, I have to get to Long Beach and--"

  "Why?"

  Cassie paused, "That's my…"

  He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, "If you’re asking me to let you ride along all the way to Washington, then it's my business as well. Now let’s hear it."

  Luckily, Cassie had taken the time, during her long wait at the bus stop, to come up with a story that validated her trip.

  "I'm writing a book," she said quickly.

  Now it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

  Cassie rushed ahead, "Yeah, I'm working on a book about the histories of small towns on the Washington coast. It's for school. I need to spend a couple of weeks there before spring term starts, to do research." She held her breath; waiting for him to ask what school she attended. Instead, after studying her for another moment he just said, "Well, that's ironic, but okay," and took a sip of his streaming coffee. Cassie was almost disappointed that she hadn't been able to use the rest of her story.

  "So," he went on, "What's your name?"

  “Huh?”

  “Well, unless you just want me to call you hey you…”

  "Cassia," she replied, and then under some compulsion she didn't even understand, she lied. "Cassia um… Williams, but everyone calls me Cassie.”

  “Never met anyone whose middle name was Umbefore.”

  “It’s just Cassie Williams, no um.”

  The man's eyebrow had inched back up, but he said nothing, chewing a bite of his pie instead. Then, after another sip of coffee, he murmured, "A rose by any other name, I guess. Names are like clothes, different suits for different occasions, that’s what I say.” The man offered his hand across the table, and Cassie shook it.