Max stepped forward into the light. “We saw your fire and wondered if we could share it with you to warm up a bit. My girl’s cold. She fell in the brook,” he explained. “Just for a few minutes.”
When they realized that we weren’t cops or their parents come to drag them back home, the one closest to us stood and smiled.
“Yeah, that’s cool.” The boy was tall and skinny with blond curls that peeked out from under a knitted hat. They were all dressed gangsta style, the rappers of backwoods Vermont.
“How far is it to civilization from here, anyway?” Max asked.
“We’re like a few miles in. It would take about three, four hours to hike back. But I got my dad’s truck.” He shined a flashlight to a clearing fifty feet away where an enormous quad-cab pickup was parked. “I gotta be to work at seven, so like, if you wanted to hang around until sixish I could give you a ride into town.”
“What time is now?”
“2:30.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“Nah, that’s cool.”
“I’m Max, and this is Ellie.”
“Cool. I’m Justin.” The boy pointed out his friends. “This is Brandon, Joe, and the dumb-ass who fell is Tyler.” Tyler climbed back on the log and waved.
“Nice to meet you,” Max said. We sat next to the flames and let the warmth penetrate our bodies. It felt better than sex. Well, almost.
“Hey, you want a beer?” Brandon asked. His hat covered his short hair so that I couldn’t see it. He had almond-shaped hazel eyes and a square jaw.
“No, thank you,” I responded. The thought of ingesting something cold made me shiver even more.
“Yes, please,” Max said. Brandon pulled a can from an icy cooler and tossed it to him. He popped the top, took a swig, then pressed it to his eye. The cold can must have felt great against the swollen flesh.
“Thanks.”
“Shit, that looks bad,” Justin commented.
“Yeah, you should see the other guy.” Max laughed. I was surprised he mentioned it, never mind joked about it.
“Did you get in a fight?” Tyler asked.
“Yeah.”
“Did you knock him out?” He seemed eager for a good story.
“No.” Max looked at Tyler with a serious expression. “I killed him.”
The four boys stared at him, their eyes round, until Max cracked a smile.
Then Justin laughed. “Good one!” They all joined in, including Max.
Max guzzled the rest of the beer and stood. “Excuse me, I need to rock a piss.” He disappeared into the bushes.
Justin turned to me and smiled. He was the clear leader of the group. “What are you guys doing out here in the middle of the night anyway?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I replied in an attempt to deflect his questioning.
He laughed, the glow from the fire lighting his pale blue eyes. “It’s pretty obvious what we’re doing.”
“Yeah, I guess. I used to do that, too.” Kids in rural areas around the US all go out in the woods to get drunk. The “no drinking under 21” law doesn’t prevent drinking; it just prevents it in public places and makes a kid get creative in how he’ll acquire it.
“You’re covered in mud,” he observed.
“I fell in the brook.”
“Even all dirty like that, you’re still pretty,” Justin said. Tyler clapped his hands over his mouth, giggling at Justin’s beer emboldened comment.
“Thanks.”
Max came back out of the bushes at that moment, buttoning his fly.
“Hey, Ellie, you got anything to smoke?” He held his thumb and forefinger up to his lips in an unambiguous gesture.
“As always.” I pulled out my silver case and lit up a joint. “You boys partake?”
“Shit, you guys are cool!” Joe spoke for the first time. He tucked his long brown hair back behind his ear.
We passed the J around the campfire. Only Justin declined, saying he needed to sober up in time for work. My shivering abated and exhaustion seeped in. I curled against Max and closed my eyes, listening as he talked with the guys until sleep overtook me and I melted into a light slumber.
23.
As promised, Justin drove us into town in the morning. We all piled into his truck and bumped our way down the old logging road and out to the main road. He let us out in the town square as the sun started to wave its burning fingers over the horizon.
“Hey, can I ask you a favor?” Justin leaned out of the window.
“Yeah, what?” Max asked.
“Please don’t tell anyone that you saw us up there, okay?”
“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”
“Cross my heart, bro!” Justin drew an X across his chest with his finger.
Max solemnly copied the gesture in return. “Honor among thieves, my friend.”
“Thanks for the ride,” I said and waved as Justin pulled away.
We looked around at the village. All the customary small town buildings, post office, general store, church, and town hall, were clustered around a town green with a Civil War monument, the bronze soldier holding his bayonet at attention.
One landmark stood out. The shiny aluminum siding and retro neon sign in front reading Hal’s Diner caught our eyes. That’s where Max and I headed. We were starved; the last time we ate had been the room service I ordered in the hotel the day before. At that moment, nothing could be better than gorging ourselves on a steaming plate of diner food.
The inside of Hal’s was traditional 1950s, complete with ancient jukeboxes on each table. A Formica counter with red Naugahyde stools sat regular customers eating bacon and eggs, drinking coffee, and chatting with the waitresses. We seated ourselves in a booth in the corner, away from the other patrons.
The waitress, pretty in a trailer-trash way with bleached blonde hair and too much make-up, came over to our table. Her mascara-laden eyelashes batted at Max.
“Hi, there! How’re y’all doing this mornin’?” Perky to the point of being annoying, she beamed and handed us menus. Her Southern accent made me wonder what brought her from the warmth of the South to the brutal cold of the northeast. After spending the night in the woods, I wasn’t feeling too cheery toward our climate. And it wasn’t even winter yet.
“Fine, thank you. How are you?” Max smiled politely at her and she noticed his eye. It was swollen shut, purple like a plum.
“Oh, honey, what happened to you?” She bent down and peered at his face.
“I, um . . . Car accident,” he muttered, not having a lie ready.
“Oh my gosh! Did the airbag go off? That can be so scary!” I’m sure she wouldn’t have been half as interested if he weren’t so good looking. She didn’t ask about my state, the mud-splattered clothes or my leaf-strewn hair. He gave me a pleading look, begging me to intervene and get him out of the conversation.
“He doesn’t want to talk about it,” I told her, then quieted my voice to a harsh whisper. “His best friend was killed.”
“That’s terrible! You poor thing. I’m so sorry.” She touched his shoulder, offering her sympathy. “I’ll give you a minute to decide.” Her cheer dampened, she hurried through the swinging door and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Why did you tell her that?” he snapped.
“It got her to shut up.” I shrugged. I didn’t know what he wanted me to say, but apparently that wasn’t it. I guess it hit a little too close to home.
Our nerves were on edge, both of us wound up tight. If we weren’t careful, we’d end up in an argument over something stupid. Max and I almost never argued, but when we did, it was bad.
He seemed to realize that, too. “Thanks,” he mumbled.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a chair,” I said as I looked at the menu, trying to decide what to eat. After a few minutes, the waitress came back over.
“Have y’all decided yet?”
“I’ll have the tall stack of blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup,” I said. I
t was $1.50 extra for the real stuff and worth every penny. I couldn’t stomach the fake shit.
“And you?” She turned to Max and smiled flirtatiously.
“I’ll have two eggs scrambled, wheat toast, bacon, and home fries, please.” He handed her the menu.
“How ‘bout to drink? Coffee, orange juice?”
“Coffee,” we both said at the same time.
She brought the coffees right over, and I stirred cream and sugar into mine. Max drank his black. I wrapped my hands around the thick ceramic mug, enjoying the heat from the steaming liquid as it warmed my frigid fingers. I wanted to talk about our plans, but I was too hungry to think.
“You have mud on your face.” Max looked amused and wiped his fingers across my cheek.
I looked down at my hands. They were dirt-streaked and caked with mud. “I’m such a mess.”
“No, it’s cute.”
“I need to wash up before we eat.” I started to get up.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I could use a wash myself.” He was also looking a little grubby.
We stood and went to the bathrooms, separating at the two swinging doors opposite each other. I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was wild, leaves and sticks wound throughout the mass of dark curls. Speckles of brown mud dotted my face and streaked down my neck. I looked like I had been dragged behind a plow.
I ran the hot water and let my hands soak in the warm flow. I washed my face and combed my hair with my fingers, making myself as presentable as possible.
When I returned to the table, Max was already there, flipping through the jukebox.
“Anything good or is it just Alvin and the Chipmunks sing Country’s Greatest Hits?” I asked as I slid into the booth.
“No, there’s some good shit in here.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a dime. One song for a dime, three for a quarter. “I wonder if it still works.” He put the coin in the slot and pressed a number into the buttons. The sound was tinny and scratchy, but a familiar guitar strumming emanated from speakers followed by Mick Jagger’s voice singing my favorite Stones song, “Let It Bleed.”
“Not bad, eh?” Max grinned at me. We were both starting to feel better with the coffee, and I grinned back.
When the song mentioned coke, Max looked at me with a faint glimmer of hope. “You don’t have any, do you?”
“Cocaine? No.” Although we occasionally indulged in a little coke from time to time, it wasn’t really our thing. I hadn’t smuggled any of the white powder in awhile, and I never bought it. When I did have it, it was usually only enough for one night of “kitchen skiing.”
“Too bad. I could use something to wake up.”
“I don’t want to wake up. I just need to stay awake long enough to get us home.” Dozing in front of the boys’ campfire fire for a couple of hours didn’t count as a good night’s sleep.
“That’s okay. I probably just need to go to bed, too.” He wiped his hands across his face as if to clear away the fatigue then took a long swig of his coffee. I felt wretched, but he looked even worse.
As I waited for my breakfast, I looked around the restaurant at the photos hanging on the wall. One was a big collage of the diner’s regular patrons, smiling, waving, all enjoying their greasy food. On the opposite side was a collection of postcards from all over the world. I was surprised to see some of them, like Indonesia and Ecuador. I didn’t expect the patrons here to be adventurous enough to travel to such exotic locales. They were colorful and gave an interesting ambiance.
When the song ended, I was tempted to play another, but felt a little too conspicuous. Some of the other clientele had given us dirty looks. It was best not to draw too much attention to our selves under the circumstances.
The waitress brought over two plates and set them in front of us. “Anything else I can get you?”
“No, thank you,” we both replied.
“Enjoy,” she said and walked away to tend some new customers.
The pancakes were steaming hot and stained purple with blueberries. I slathered them with butter and syrup, took a bite and let it rest on my tongue, the syrupy maple against the sweet tart blueberry. Those were the best pancakes I ever had.
As the diner started to fill with patrons, a big bear of a man entered and sat at the counter. He was a regular; everyone said hello and called him Ernie. His ass cheeks hung over the side of the stool and his bum crack peeked out from his dirty jeans. He took his hat off, a red, grease-stained Boston Red Sox cap, and scratched his scalp before setting it back on his head, redneck style.
“The wife made me take the Caddy,” he said to no one in particular in a booming voice so that everyone could hear. “Bitch was walking around pissin’ and moanin’ all mornin’ ‘cause I don’t got time to clean the shit out the back yet. I told her she could take my truck if she just shut up.”
The guy on the stool next to him said something too low for me to hear, and they both laughed, probably making fun of “the wife.” The waitress came over and placed a cup of coffee in front of Ernie.
“The usual?” she asked.
“Yeah, the usual.” His nasty, condescending tone was coupled with a swat on her backside as she passed. She jumped and moved away from him in a hurry, her face a scowl of indignation.
Throughout the whole breakfast, we were subjected to Ernie’s observations and musings. I concentrated on the sweet taste of my pancakes and ignored him the best I could.
The waitress, this time approaching from behind the counter well out of groping range, set down a plate of eggs and home fries in front of Ernie. He started shoveling food in with table manners that matched his image.
“Little slow this mornin’, ain’t ya?” His accent was pure Vermont without a single “r” pronounced. “Morning” came out something like “mohnin.” My accent, although I had lived in Vermont my whole life, sounded neutral in comparison, probably from watching too much TV. He turned and looked at us, a blob of egg hanging from his mustache. “Probably takes longer to fix the fancy shit them flat-landers over in the corner ordered!” He cracked himself up, slapping his thigh, and turned back to his breakfast.
Flat-landers? Being a native Vermonter, I took offense to the term. I could see Max tense. It wasn’t the term that bothered him as much as the fact that someone was talking about us like that practically to our faces. He chewed the corner of his lip and eyed Ernie, clearly wanting to tell him just what he thought.
“Don’t.” I touched his hand lightly to get his attention. “There are better, more discreet ways.” Our eyes locked for a moment, then Max smiled.
“I won’t.” He held his hands up in a gesture of innocence like he would never think of it.
We finished eating and drained our mugs. I wanted to pick up my plate and lick it. Max flagged the waitress over for the bill. I counted out the money and left it on the table along with a generous tip.
Out in the parking lot, I looked around until I spotted an old 1970’s Cadillac, baby shit brown, and headed for it. It was nothing to brag about. I found the driver’s side door unlocked and slid myself behind the wheel. I was about to look for the wires under the steering column when I noticed a bit of luck: Ernie left the keys in the ignition. I turned the key, and the engine roared to life.
Max jumped in the passenger side with a grin and said, “Nice choice.”
“Teach Ol’ Ernie to ruin my breakfast,” I said as I pulled out of the parking lot and pointed the car toward our home.
24.
It was about an hour drive to our house. Max fiddled with the radio stations, trying to find something other than the Sunday morning Christian talk show that was currently playing. The radio was a real piece of shit, the antenna broken off at the base so it didn’t get much for reception. He finally gave up and turned it off.
I came around a corner and found myself behind a small pickup truck. Vermont drivers are extremely slow with one exception -- they drive like maniacs in the snow. That day, ho
wever, the weather was perfect, and the driver cruised at the speed of a sloth. I rode up on his tail, impatiently hammering my fist against the steering wheel in frustration.
Finally we came to a long straightaway in the road. It wasn’t marked for passing, but I could see that the road ahead was clear. I pressed the accelerator and revved the Cadillac’s engine, pulling into the oncoming lane and passing the slow motorist with ease, the eight cylinders pumping the car forward with power. Now I understood the advantage of this boat.
I smiled, imagining Ernie wandering around the parking lot wondering where he parked his car. He’d probably already called the police, or maybe not, assuming his wife had taken it from him behind his back. We had a good head start, anyway, and found ourselves at our own place in no time without any incidents.
The night had been a long, exhaustive journey. We were both bone-weary and beat, but we made it home and were safely away from the disaster we encountered in Montreal.
We left the stolen Cadillac parked behind the barn and walked into the old farmhouse. Max went immediately upstairs to take a shower. I was tempted to join him, but instead decided to do the few things I had to get done before I could settle in. I took out the phone book and found a towing company that had the equipment to pick up my plane. They were pretty busy all week and wouldn’t be able to get it for several days. That was fine with me; I had no intension of flying.
Next, I had to call the golf course. I looked up the number and exhaled slowly as I tentatively dialed.
“Maplewood Golf Course, may I help you?”
“Um, yes, may I speak with the manager please?”
“It’s Sunday. He doesn’t work on Sundays.” Her voice was unpleasant, spoken through her nose in a snotty New England twang.
“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll tell you my predicament and you can give him a message.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know if anyone has been out to hole number ten yet --“
“You mean the airplane,” she interrupted. “Yes, we did notice it. It’s kind of hard not to.”
“Right. Well, that’s mine.”
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