“Who you lookin’ for?” a very scratchy voice asked.
“Jesse James,” Peter yelled.
“Ain’t here,” said the voice.
“You know where I can find him?”
“Workin’.”
“Where?”
“Mill.”
“Lumber mill?”
“Dunno. Maybe.”
“Does he live in one of these units? I mean will he be here when he gets off work?”
“That’s all I got to say. Go on ’fore I call the poleece.”
“Thanks for your trouble.”
They drove to the first gas station they saw and parked. Inside they asked what mills were in the area and if by chance they knew a Jesse James. There was a log-home building company off Peaceful Valley Road before you got to Ludlow and another logging company past Ludlow off 103. No one knew a Jesse James.
The boys decided to try the logging mill past Ludlow first.
“You can’t go on telling people that you’re this guy’s son. They’ll think your out to do him harm,” Piccolo said. “Say you found Jesse James’ wallet and you’re trying to return it. Something like that.” Joe rummaged in his pants pocket and produced an old battered leather wallet, emptied it of its three ones and handed it to Peter.
Peter wondered at Joe’s reasoning. Why would someone be suspicious of a kid trying to find his father? He was about to ask, but thought about Amos and stuffed the wallet in his pants pocket. He didn’t know much about the relationship between Joe and his dad, but he’d heard enough about the Piccolo family to realize it couldn’t be good.
They drove down 103 watching for the sign the garage attendant described. He couldn’t remember the name of the mill, but said the sign had a critter on it. A squirrel or a mole maybe. Turn left and down a dirt road. “You’ll see it on your right,” he told them.
“Looks like a beaver to me,” Peter said when he saw the sign up ahead. “Sure don’t look like anybody’d be building anything in this weather. You’d think the mills would be closed.”
“Maybe they do maintenance work in winter. You know, repair, clean and oil the machinery. Same with the trucks.”
Joe pulled into the cleanly plowed and sanded yard. Several buildings lined a patch of land bordered by woods crowded with maple, oak, birch and a variety of evergreens. Joe parked the truck alongside a bevy of vehicles sitting in a line against a wall of plowed snow. Peter walked to the building with windows in front, reasoning it might house the office.
“Do you have a Jesse James employed here,” Peter asked the first person he saw in the office. The man, built like a lumber-jack, was wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt.
“You’ll have to ask Sadie, son.” The man told him. “Sadie,” he yelled into the hallway behind him.
A short, stooped man appeared. “This fellow wants to know if a Jesse James works here,” the lumber-jack type asked him.
“Who wants to know,” the man called Sadie asked Peter.
“I’m here to return his wallet.”
Sadie, shorter than Peter, looked him up and down. “What you want here, boy?”
“I found this here wallet,” Peter said holding it up for show. “In the McDonald’s. Just want to return it.”
Sadie shook his large balding head. “He’ll be off in a half hour. You want to wait?”
“I’ll wait outside in the truck.” Peter said. “How will I know him?”
“Jim, take him on back. What the hell.” Sadie said.
Jim, the burly guy in the flannel shirt, walked Peter to one of the buildings behind the office. Once inside he pointed out a man wearing a rubber apron, standing next to a wooden chute. Jim left. Peter stood transfixed, watching the man that was supposed to be his father.
Peter moved closer. Five feet away, he could watch the man who was watching someone else. When given a signal Jesse James pulled a switch and a log was cut and rolled on down a wooden trough. Peter wondered that it wasn’t done automatically. Why a Jesse James was not replaced by software. Suddenly a bell rang, the machinery stopped, and people were taking off aprons and walking in the same direction out of the building. Peter followed Jesse James at a three foot distance. “Meet you at Charley’s?” One of the men asked him. Jesse James waved his arm above his head in answer.
“Follow them,” Peter told Joe as he climbed into the truck and pointed at a group of vehicles leaving the yard.
They ended up in the parking lot of a joint called Charley’s, where the boys figured they wouldn’t be allowed entrance without good reason. Surely the return of a wallet to its owner …
Peter decided to find out. “I’ve been sent to give this wallet to Jesse James,” Peter told the bouncer at the door, “He called home for it.”
The bouncer even pointed Jesse out so Peter needn’t waste time looking for him.
Peter walked in and started in the direction the bouncer pointed, but detoured. He wanted to be a fly on the wall, but there was no place to hide. “Buss that table,” he heard the bartender yell from his station behind the bar. Peter looked up and realized the bartender was looking in his direction. He turned around, saw the table closest to him needed bussing and began gathering up glasses. He walked to the area where coffee was made, scrounged around for a wet towel and a plastic bucket to clean off the table.
Piccolo appeared in Peter’s peripheral vision. Peter turned and watched Joe sit at the bar. “Jack Daniels, straight up,” he heard him say. The bartender didn’t even card the rugged looking boy with the curly black hair falling across his forehead. The light in the bar was so dim he probably couldn’t make out his age under all that hair. Peter looked up from his cleaning with eyes wide open and questioning. Joe smiled ever so slightly while he handed the bartender money.
Jesse James was seated just a few feet from the table Peter was wiping down. To Peter he looked as old as Brownie who was at least sixty years old. His face was creased and brackish with stubble. His hair was salt and pepper, scant wisps on the top of his head, long and stringy to his shoulder in the back. His hands were rough and caked with dirt around the fingernails. He was a thin man, a head taller than the other three men at the table, but stoop shouldered. When he talked, Peter saw large gaps of missing teeth. A cigarette hung from his mouth when he wasn’t talking. He reminded Peter of the old man, Frank Gibbs, from the Green Mountain lumber yard, the dead night watchman whose engine was under the house. Peter didn’t want to know this man much less have him for a father. Suddenly sick to his stomach, Peter was ready to go home.
He walked to where Joe was sitting, nursing the whiskey. “I’m ready to leave,” he told him in a whisper.
“Which one’s your old man?” Joe asked him, hiding his mouth behind his hand.
Peter didn’t want to tell him. He shrugged then said, “The one that’s facing us with the long stringy hair.”
“Jesus, I thought my old man was rough.”
Peter slipped out the front door first. Piccolo followed a minute behind him, but no one seemed to take notice. The ride back was a quiet one. Peter had a thought so disturbing it made him nauseous. He could not imagine how his mother could have let that man in the bar get within ten feet of her. How could she have allowed him to make a baby?
CHAPTER XXI
Margie went to work Saturday morning like everyday. The hill was sanded and although steep, she slogged down in felt lined boots and parka, just as she’d always done. At six in the morning dawn was on the horizon. She looked toward the shed behind the Gear household. Did she expect smoke rising from the pot belly stove? A light was on in the kitchen in the house and she expected Sam was getting ready for his drive back to the place he felt he fit best.
They hadn’t really spoken since the evening he’d made his announcement. The thought of stopping by popped in her head. Keep an open door for Peter, the excuse. But her feet kept on without making the turn. She was past tears, past pain. Her heart was a shriveled thing, just a beater pumping blood.
No more foolish dreams. Grow up, Margie. Knights are lies found in story books. She promised herself she’d read Stephen King from here on. No more Harlequin Romance. King was closer to reality. She smiled at that thought. What a dumb fool is Marjorie Merryhill. Eyes to the road ahead, she let herself feel the stab of pain like a knife in her gut. She took a deep breath, let it out. Numb again, she placed one snow boot in front of the other on down the long steep road.
******
Peter waited, eyes open, staring at the ceiling above his bed, for the sound of the front door banging closed. He didn’t know where he was going yet, but he wouldn’t be here when his mother returned this evening.
******
Sam felt like a sailor jumping ship except his swim to shore was in a dry old Pontiac station wagon. He’d packed his gear the night before and had only a carry on bag with his toiletries to carry during the hugs and kisses and goodbyes at the door.
Brownie showed up for breakfast and Sam walked into the kitchen in time to see him deliver a morning kiss to Allison’s cheek. The sight made his stomach lurch. He looked around as if Pop might be lurking in a corner somewhere, then wondered at his strange feelings and behavior. He was happy for his mom and Brownie too. He was delighted, in fact. So why did he have a frantic urge to run to the car and disappear down the road and not look back?
Brownie wasn’t Pop. Maybe it was as simple as that. He was a close family friend. Sam grew up in Brownie’s garage, hanging around after school, learning everything he could about gears, motors, transmissions. Brownie never chased him out, never said he was in the way, asked too many questions. Instead he answered his questions, sometimes taking a job apart again if Sam didn’t understand the answer. At fifteen Sam worked at Brownie’s after school and during summers. Pop picked him up there every day on his way home from the mill. Brownie would grab two beers from the frig at the back and he and pop would have a cold one while Sam washed up. It was the only beer Sam ever saw Brownie drink, that Coors every quitting time with Pop. Been a long time since I’ve thought of that.
They ate the French toast with real Vermont maple syrup, fresh country sausage, and eggs Allison cooked for breakfast, and made small talk about Sam’s new position at Digitronics and the coming wedding and motor-homing vacation across the nation and up to Lake Louise in Canada.
Finally it was time for Sam to get on the road. He left them waving from the porch, watching them in the rear view mirror until he turned the corner down the hill and they disappeared from view. Isolated on a cold, snow packed hill in a tiny town in Vermont, he felt completely empty.
Sam popped an old tape in the Pontiac’s vintage tape player and let the soundtrack from The Age of Aquarius fill him with a promise of joyful expectation. “Free,” he told himself, “I am light, and I am free.”
******
Peter ran like the wind was after him. He wore the snowmobile suit Sam found among Mr. Gear’s things, his felt lined boots, down filled mittens and hunter’s hat with the ear flaps down over his ears. A back pack school bag slung over his shoulders held his underwear and two changes of clothes. He had one hundred twenty six dollars in his wallet and thirty four cents in the change pocket of his jeans.
******
“It’s the drugstore,” Hannah told Margie, poking her head in the kitchen. “They just called. Petey didn’t show up for work.” It was six o’clock, making him four hours late. He was scheduled to start at two this Saturday. Margie replayed last night in her head. Peter stayed in his room, said he wasn’t hungry, had a ton of home work. She didn’t push him, thinking he was pining because Sam was leaving in the morning.
Peter never missed work. If he was going to be late he called. “I’ve got to go home,” Margie told Hannah. Her shift was ending anyway, but mostly she didn’t know where else to start looking for him. Maybe he couldn’t sleep last night and was sleeping now, exhausted, didn’t hear the alarm.
******
Margie saw the note propped up between the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table.
Mom,
I met my real father yesterday. I don’t know what to say. I just can’t live here anymore. He reminded me of Frank, the old night watchman who lived in the trailer in the lumber yard. The guy Joe got the engine from. I got nothing against old Frank. He was dirty and drunk all the time, but he was an okay guy. Just not someone I can imagine my mother being with anymore than I can a guy like Jessie James. That’s what I can’t stand. Or that he’s my father. I’ll call Mr. Smith at the drug store as soon as I can. In the meantime please tell him I’m sorry for running out on him and that I appreciate all that he’s done for me.
Guess I know now why you lied to me about my father.
Peter
Stricken with guilt and an awakening terror, Margie’s knees folded, and she found herself sprawled like a fallen rag doll, her legs at awkward angles on the tile floor. Words Amos said ran through her mind. Something is going on between Peter and my son. Margie pulled herself to her feet, using the table for stability. Her left ankle hurt, and she had to limp to the telephone on the kitchen wall. She dialed Brownie first. Sam accused her of using her dear friends, Brownie and Allison, when she should have been completely independent. No man is an island, Sam, she thought. At least he had hands to catch her when she fell. She wondered who would catch Sam the next time he fell. He almost died the last time.
“Brownie here.”
Margie read Peter’s note exactly as written. Brownie cleared his throat before he spoke. “Have you called Joey Piccolo? I hear they were seen driving out of town in Amos’s pickup yesterday afternoon, headed toward Ludlow. “
Margie rang. “Hello, Piccolo residence,” Angela said in her soft, little-girl voice so surprising from the tall, mature-for-her-age, fourteen year old.
“Is Joey there?” Margie asked.
“No. May I ask who’s calling?” came the polite reply.
“This is Margie Merryhill, Peter’s mother. I need to get hold of Joe as soon as possible. Do you know where I can find him?”
“He left with Peter early this morning in Dad’s truck. I haven’t seen hide or hair of them since.”
Margie wasn’t sure what to say or ask of this girl, but Angela rode on the snowmobile with Peter a week ago. Perhaps she had a crush on him and would help. “Angela, I have a note from Peter saying he’s leaving home. I need to find him right away. Please call me as soon as you see or hear from your brother. Will you do that for me?”
“Peter? But why would he do that? He has everything.” There was a pause and Margie heard Angela’s muffled voice talking to someone else. “Sorry. I’m back. Dad wanted to know who I was talking to. Just a minute,” and Margie heard more muffled talking. “I’m back. He’s left the room. I don’t want him to know Peter’s run away with Joe’s help, Mrs. Merryhill, and in dad’s truck.” Angela sighed before she spoke again. “Of course, I’ll call you just as soon as I hear anything at all. You must be really worried. I just can’t imagine what has gotten into Peter. I mean he’s found the dad he always wanted and he’s got the best mom in the world. Go figure.”
Margie called Brownie with the update. He in turn called Allison. Allison finished putting on her winter boots, scarf and mittens and left her house for the trail leading to Margie’s.
******
“We’ve got to call Sam on his cell,” were Allison’s first words when Margie opened her door.
“No,” was all Margie could manage. She hid her shaking hands in the pocket of the white uniform dress she was still wearing, but she couldn’t hide her trembling lips even though she held them imprisoned between her teeth.
Allison wrapped Margie in her arms then guided her to the living room sofa. “We’ll find him and bring him home,” Allison said. “He can’t have gone far.”
******
Sunday morning, headed for Highway 81 after leaving the Super 8 motel where he spent the night in Winchester, Virginia, Sam picked up his cell phone and dialed h
is mother. “Had a strange dream last night and wanted to make sure everything is all right,” he told her.
“How’s the weather?” she asked, stalling while she decided how much to tell him.
“Cold, thirty six degrees, but clear skies,” he answered. “What’s going on?” he asked with a foreboding ring to the question.
“I may as well tell you. You’ll hear sooner or later, anyway,” Allison said letting out a huge sigh. “Peter has run away from home.”
She told Sam about the note and the information from Angela that the two boys left Piccolo’s house together in Amos’s truck early Saturday morning.
“The police have been notified and are looking for the truck. I can’t believe the boys will get very far before they’re found.”
“They’ll abandon the truck and hitch hike or hole up somewhere if they’re serious,” Sam said. “Bet the truck is found somewhere today in a parking lot or on the side of the road. Does Angela know in which direction they headed when they left?”
“No,” Allison said. “What can we do now?”
“Wait. Pray.”
******
Sam drove on down Interstate 81 headed toward Interstate 77 and North Carolina. His thoughts were all about turning the car around and heading back, but his cruise control stayed at 63 miles an hour headed south. A sign for Harrisonburg whipped by his vision when the cell phone rang.
“They found the truck parked at the Walmart in Keene,” Allison said. “Police detectives, waited, watching the truck for two or three hours, but the boys never showed up. They cased the Walmart and other stores—McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and so on. Nobody remembers seeing two boys of their description.” Allison continued. “The weather forecasters are calling for a blizzard tonight with six to eight inches of snow.”
“Who does Joey know in New Hampshire? Relatives? Friends? Is anyone talking to Amos? Has anyone called Joe’s mother in Oregon? Maybe she can think of something we missed, or knows something the rest of us don’t.”
Learning to Live Again Page 17