Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One

by Perry P. Perkins

  “I’ve got a tent in the back, and an extra sleeping bag. I’ll pitch that for me and you can sleep here in the van with the doors locked. We’ll try to get a few hours of sleep and then hit the road again at first light.”

  “Thanks Jack,” Cassie replied, leaning her head against the dusty window, suddenly exhausted, “for everything.”

  “Goodnight kid.”

  Jack drove in silence for another two hours, cruising south through the featureless desert, Cassie sleeping in the seat next to him, drifting away comfortably to the endless hum of rubber and asphalt. Like two glowing eyes, the van’s dusty headlights cut a bright path through the darkness, far down Interstate 10 until they reached the exit for Yuma and San Diego, then onto AZ-85, and finally to Interstate 8. When the high beams lit a sign reading Sentinel Rest Stop, Next Right, Jack pulled into the near lane and took the long curving off-ramp into the parking lot.

  A dozen empty parking spaces sat in front of a squat brick building housing a men’s rest room to the left and women’s to the right. Two glowing soda machines stood, in heavy iron cages, next to a lit billboard covered with maps. Jack drove past the building, down to the last space on the lot and parked. His headlights came to rest on a wide circle of emerald lawn, backed by a thick, low hedge. As he turned off the engine, Cassie stirred in her seat.

  Okay,” he said, gently shaking her, “we’re home.” Cassie yawned and stretched, blinking her eyes.

  “Wow,” she said, sleepily, “am I ever thirsty!”

  “I’ll grab us a couple of sodas on the way back. The tent’s wrapped in that green tarp in the back,” he reached beneath the driver’s seat, “here’s a hammer, do you know how to set up a tent?”

  “Are you kidding,” she yawned, “I was in Girl Scouts for six years. I can pitch a tent with my eyes closed.”

  “Good enough,” Jack said, “what do you want to drink?”

  “Something diet.”

  Jack rolled his eyes, muttering. “Never knew a woman who wasn’t on a diet!”

  “What was that?” Cassie asked sweetly, hefting the hammer.

  “Ah…nothing,” said Jack, making his retreat.

  “Wait up,” she called, suddenly, “I’ll go with you. I need to…um…talk to a man about a horse, too.”

  Jack laughed as they crossed the lawn. Inside the low, block building, Cassie rinsed her face in cold water, running her fingers through her hair. She grimaced at her reflection in the scarred, graffitied, square of polished sheet metal bolted to the wall above the sink.

  Digging in her pocket she pulled out a handful of coins and, walking back to the vending machines, popped in a couple of quarters for a diet cola. Jack met her by the machines and requested a root beer. Together they walked back to the van.

  Jack pulled the tent and tarp from the back, thanking Cassie again for helping him set it up.

  “This old back isn’t what it used to be," he said, "and bending over to pound in tent stakes sure makes it squawk.”

  “I should be thanking you,” she replied. “You’re the one giving up your bed.”

  After her earlier ordeal, Cassie couldn’t turn down the security of the locked van but she did insist that Jack let her pull the heavy mattress out from under the boxes and put it in the tent for him.

  “My back,” she replied to his arguing, “has a good thirty years on yours and I can sleep on the floor just fine.”

  Jack grumbled but conceded, rolling out his sleeping bag onto the thick twin-size mattress. He took a battered old Coleman lantern, and his root beer, over to the nearby picnic table and sat. Cassie joined him and Jack saluted her with his half-full aluminum can.

  “To your health!” he said, and drank.

  Cassie laughed, raising her own soda, “and to yours, sir!”

  “So,” Jack began, after setting down his drink, “What do your parents think about your little excursion?” Cassie averted her eyes, setting down her own pop, “Not much…” she replied vaguely.

  “Is that a fact?” he murmured, “Please tell me I’m not harboring a fugitive. Do they do know you're out here?”

  “I’m eighteen, so I wouldn’t be a fugitive anyway, but it doesn’t matter because I don’t know my father and my mom…died a while back.” Cassie stumbled over her words, which sounded strange and foreign coming from her mouth.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Cassie shook her head quickly and smiled to brave off the tears.

  ”Boy,” she said, “my mom would be throwing three kinds of fits if she knew what I was doing! She was quite the mother hen.”

  “You better be careful," Jack smiled, "you could get struck by lightning!”

  Cassie took another sip of her pop.

  “Why, Mr. Leland,” she replied in a shocked voice, “does that constitute a belief in a higher power?” Jack's smile seemed forced, and his eyes had taken on that sardonic, self-mocking look once more. “I never said I didn’t believe, I just said it never did much for me.”

  “So you do believe in God?” Cassie asked.

  "You really need to learn to express yourself, Cassie Williams," he replied, sourly, "you're just too reserved."

  Cassie said nothing, her eyes never leaving his. She had learned this trick from Guy Williams. When someone wanted you to take over the conversation, they would force a silence, hoping the listener would grow uncomfortable and speak. If you could hold out the longest, you usually won. In the silence, Cassie could hear trucks rushing past on the highway and the sound of crickets singing in a far-off field. The night air hung cool and motionless around them and only the faint hum of the vending machines disturbed the stillness.

  Finally, Jack sighed, “Let’s just say that we have an understanding, God and I…”

  “And that is?”

  Jack finished his root beer in one long swallow, “…and that is, that He’s better off without me.” Cassie paused a moment to reposition her argument, “So do you--”

  “Yeah,” Jack interrupted her, “both of my parents passed on when I was about your age, too. ‘ Course, I was overseas at the time. Vietnam. Sweeping bird poop off an airstrip in Can Tho, serving my country,” Jack said with a derisive snort.

  “You were in the army?”

  Jack winced, “Please, Navy!”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Jack continued, his voice a soft murmur above the night sounds. “I got a letter there at the airfield that they had died in a house fire. They both smoked cigarettes from dawn to dark, I figure that one of them fell asleep with a smoke smoldering in their hand and that, as they say, was that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cassie whispered.

  “Oh, it’s okay.” Jack smiled, a little easier this time.

  “That," he said, "is the one condolence that I can offer you now. Someday that hurt is going to fade and all that will be left will be your memories of the good times and just a little bit of sadness.”

  Cassie said nothing, but watched as the moths flew in frantic circles around the burning globe of the lantern.

  “The letter was three weeks old when it reached the base. By that time the funeral was two weeks past. I only had another couple of months of active duty, so I didn’t see any point of coming all the way back home just to look at the headstones and then go right back to the war.” Jack paused, crumpling the soda can in his fist before going on. "I stayed and finished my tour, so I didn’t make it back until the next summer. By then, the graves didn’t even look new anymore. Three weeks after that I left for college.”

  Cassie wanted to ask him what college he had gone to, but her eyelids wouldn’t stay open and her head was nodding. Jack noticed and stood, yawning himself. Okay,” he said, “enough ancient history for one night. It's almost midnight, and morning's going to come awful early.”

  Cassie began to turn away when Jack remembered something.

  "Wait a second," he said, walking over to the van and rummaging briefly through the glove box. Coming back over to C
assie, he handed her a small bundle, wrapped in an oil-stained rag. Unwrapping the cloth revealed a heavy folding knife with the word BUCKimprinted on the wood inlaid sides. Cassie opened the gleaming, steel blade carefully, jumping slightly when it snapped into the locked position, and tested the edge with her thumb. The slightly curved bladed had been carefully honed to a razor sharpness, and ended in a needle pointed tip.

  Open, the knife was roughly eight inches long and felt solid in her hand. Jack watched her eyes and nodded as she slowly pressed the lever on the handle that released the blade from its locked position.

  "Good," he said, "You know how a lock-blade works. If someone grabs you again like our friend back there, you stick 'em as hard as you can and start screaming bloody murder; chances are they'll be doing the same! It probably won't kill them, but it'll sure slow them down in a chase. Could you do that?"

  Cassie stood, hefting the heavy pocketknife in her hand, thinking back to the helpless fear that she had felt, being dragged back into the shadows.

  "Yes," she said softly, "I think I could."

  "Well," replied Jack, "You put that knife away in your bag until you're sure. A knife is no different from a gun; don't ever carry one for self-defense if you don't knowthat you could use it. Otherwise you’re just providing your attacker with a weapon."

  Cassie nodded hesitantly, her eyes still on the knife.

  "I know it's an ugly thought," Jack continued, "maybe even wrong, but sometimes you have to weigh what's right with the way the world is and find a happy medium. Remember,” Jack reached out and tapped her forehead with one thick finger, “the best thing you can do to keep yourself safe is to stay in safe places. Second-best is to scream your head off--"

  Cassie nodded as she slipped the knife from one hand to the other.

  "--and always yell fire," Jack went on, "never help. There are too many folks out there, sad to say, who'd rather not get involved, but everyone wants to see a good fire. Fighting is always your last option, when you've got no other way out.”

  She nodded again, a little more confidently this time, and slipped the Buck knife into the front pocket of her jeans.

  “Just think about it is all I'm saying. Now get some sleep."

  Cassie locked the swinging back door of the van behind her and twisted into the most comfortable position she could find on the hard metal floor. She could feel the hard length of the knife pressing against her leg, and felt a little more reassured.

  Then, as she was trying to decide which boot to take off first, she fell asleep.

  Chapter Six

  Jack had been right, morning did come early, and Cassie felt as though she had just closed her eyes when there was a tap on the side window of the van. Cassie raised her head, groggily, and nodded to Jack, letting him know she was awake. Despite what she had said the night before, her back was stiff and sore from hours of lying on the hard floor. Also, she was cold; the soft gray light in the window told her that the sun had yet to peak over the nearest hills to warm the desert. She shivered, pulling her jacket from the front seat and rummaging through her duffel bag until she found her toiletries.

  Reaching up she unlocked the sliding door and, squirming out of her blankets, she stepped out into the cool morning air.

  Jack was at the picnic table, his short white hair in wild disarray, and his shirttail flapping loosely in the slight morning breeze. He had a small tin coffeepot steaming over a single burner camp stove and, while the coffee percolated, Jack busied himself slicing apples and oranges. Cassie smiled as she passed him on her way to the restrooms,

  "Morning, Jack," she said.

  Jack replied with an unintelligible grunt that may or may not have been good morning. Again, Cassie splashed her face with the icy water from the tap, brushed her hair and teeth and, beginning to feel somewhat presentable once more, started back to the campsite.

  She found Jack still seated at the picnic table, a heavy mug full of steaming black coffee in his hand. He was staring absently into a patch of grass several feet ahead of him.

  "Beautiful day!” Cassie grinned. Jack was obviously not a morning person, and her comment hung there for a while, as it slowly filtered into Jack's brain. He glanced up at Cassie with a sour expression, "The Japanese have a saying,” he muttered, “Never rely on the glory of the morning nor the smiles of your mother-in-law. The only good morning is the one that you've missed when you wake up at noon!"

  Cassie laughed and, nibbling on an apple slice, walked back to the tent.

  While Jack slowly succumbed to the affects of sunlight and caffeine, Cassie broke down the tent and loaded it, and the mattress, back into the van. As she worked, the two semi trucks, which had pulled in during the night, fired up their engines and pulled out of the rest stop and back onto the highway. Except for a black pick-up at the opposite end of the parking lot, she and Jack had the rest stop to themselves. Jack nodded to the truckers as they rolled past.

  "Wow, Cassie said, "They don't sleep long do they?"

  "Probably sleeping in shifts," Jack replied, "When you're driving a big truck like that, you're only allowed so much time behind the wheel before you’re required to rest for several hours. A lot of truckers get used to sleeping three or four hours at a time during those breaks so they don't lose any more time on the highway than they have to."

  "Well, that makes sense, I guess,” Cassie replied, “doesn't sound like much fun though."

  "No," said Jack, gathering the stove and lamp. "I tried it for a while before I joined the Navy, just for a summer. I didn't care much for it."

  "Oh?"

  "No, some folks were meant to stay in one place, like they're born with roots already in the ground. I learned quick, that summer, that I could only be away from the smell of the ocean for so long before it started to wear me down."

  "A homebody, then?" asked Cassie with a smile.

  "Good a word as any, I suppose." Jack replied, "George Moore said that a person travels the world over in search of what he needs, and returns home to find it. I guess a few of us are born lucky enough to want to stay put to begin with."

  "I don't know," Cassie said, plopping down at the table opposite Jack. "I couldn't wait to get out of Bowie! As much as I loved everyone, I just knew there was a whole world going on and we just caught the echo of it there. It was like standing outside the stadium listening to people cheering for a game you can't see."

  "Now that you're in the game,” he asked, “what do you think?"

  "Well," Cassie grimaced, "I don't know that Sentinel, Arizona is exactlyin the game either, but at least I feel like I'm moving in the right direction.”

  "So, let me get this straight,” Jack grinned, “you're leaving a pitifully small town called Bowie, Arizona to go find the world in another pitifully small town called Long Beach, Washington?"

  Cassie threw her orange peel at him.

  "You can be a very disagreeable person,” she said, haughtily, “Do you know that?"

  "It has been mentioned, yes."

  Cassie tried to maintain her frown, but gave up and laughed.

  "First, smarty,” she retorted, “I'm not expecting to find the world in Long Beach, it's just a starting place. I thought that some time in a different small town might ease me into life at a city college."

  "And what city would that be?" Jack asked.

  "Portland," Cassie answered, "Portland State University. I'm enrolling there in the fall. The writing department requires a thesis at the end of each year, so I thought I'd get a head start on it while I still had some free time."

  “So, you changed your mind?” Jack asked, smiling slyly.

  Cassie looked at him blankly.

  “Changed my mind about what?” she asked.

  “I thought you had to hurry up and finish your book for springterm?”

  Cassie’s mouth grew dry and her stomach did a cold flip-flop as she groped for an answer. Jack saved her any further indignities, interrupting with a wave.

  "So
unds like a good plan, either way," he said with a wink, standing and gathering the last of the items on the table, "and now, we should probably get a head start on the road!"

  Cassie, her face flaming, retreated gratefully into the van; neither of them noticing as the black pick-up truck, with its dark, tinted windows, pulled onto the highway behind them.

  *

  They followed Interstate-8 west through Yuma, and into California.

  Reaching San Diego around noon, Jack pulled the van into a bumpy gravel parking lot, stopping in front of a small seedy-looking gas station and food mart. Sharing the parking lot with the fuel pumps was a worn Airstream travel trailer that some industrious soul had converted into a mobile lunch wagon. Cassie got the impression, looking at the rusty wheels and voluminous patch of weeds growing up all around it, that the aluminum trailer hadn't been mobilein some time. A brightly striped awning hung above the windowed counter of the trailer, and a giant sandwich board menu, all in Spanish, stood beside the road.

  Jack eased from the driver’s seat with a groan, as he stretched his back, twisting left and right, his hands on his hips. Yawning, he proceeded to fill the gas tank from the dusty nozzle hanging beside the pump.

  Cassie wandered off to find a rest room and, finding it locked, went to the office, where she was handed the key, firmly chained to a long lead pipe. Jack snickered as she walked past, hefting the pipe with both hands. Cassie ignored him haughtily and returned to the back of the building to unlock the ladies room door.

  After returning the key, she walked back to the van to find Jack holding a white paper bag in his lap. The smell rising from the bag made Cassie’s stomach rumble loudly and her mouth began to water. Jack laughed.

  "Well,” he said, “I was going to ask if you were hungry yet, but I'll take that for a yes!”

  Cassie grinned as he handed her an offering from the bag, warm and wrapped tight in foil.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "A carne picada taco," he replied, unwrapping his own lunch, "and not your pasty, flavorless American versions of a taco either, these are the real thing!” With that, he took a huge bite of the steaming, tortilla-wrapped morsel, rolling his eyes in ecstasy as thick juice dribbled down his chin.