Twilight of the Drifter

by Shelly Frome

  Twilight

  of the

  Drifter

  Shelly Frome

  Twilight of the Drifter

  Copyright © 2011, by Shelly Frome.

  Cover Copyright © 2011 by Sunbury Press, Inc.

  NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact Sunbury Press, Inc., Subsidiary Rights Dept., 2200 Market St., Camp Hill, PA 17011 USA or legal@sunburypress.com.

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  FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION

  Printed in the United States of America

  November 2011

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-934597-86-6

  Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1-934597-87-3

  ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-934597-88-0

  Published by:

  Sunbury Press

  Camp Hill, PA

  www.sunburypress.com

  Camp Hill, Pennsylvania USA

  For Susan, always

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am indebted to my editor Allyson Gard for her gentle way of keeping a watchful eye and for introducing me to Microsoft’s hidden world of tracking changes. Moreover, though I had no idea at the time I was gathering seeds for this odyssey, I wish to express my gratitude to the following three people. My thanks to Bob Wallace for taking me down to the wilds of Wolf Creek and returning us to safety, and for accompanying me on a saunter from the Peabody Hotel to the heart of Beale Street. I also wish to thank Adam Gussow, professional harmonic player and professor of English and Southern Studies at Ole Miss, for demonstrating the joys of the blues harp, noting certain recordings of legendary bluesmen, and recommending further reading on the subject. And I certainly want to thank Larry Wells of Oxford’s Yokanapatapha Press for chats and e-mails about various topics like Willie Morris’ idyllic view of Mississippi, the political realities of the magnolia state and its abiding backward glance; and for keeping me in mind of the garrulous nature of its citizens, especially those who reside in his beloved Faulkner Country.

  Shelly Frome 2011

  1.

  Wolf Creek was silent again, shrouded and hidden away in the fading early December light.

  Then the cracking sound of wood as the old hunter’s blind gave way somewhere in the near distance, a sudden scream and a muffled thud. The cracking sound was not nearly as sharp as the first gunshot or the second, the scream not at all as piercing as the first cry or as grating as the moans that followed and faded.

  The coonhound took off immediately, ignoring the touch of frost in the creek water, the obstacle course of fallen tree limbs and bare forked branches, the muddy slope and the snare and tangle of vines and whip-like saplings. Within seconds, the hound was bounding higher until he came upon a prone scrawny figure totally unlike the one that had just fallen on the opposite bank.

  Sniffing around, barking and howling, the hound snapped at the flimsy jacket and bit into it. As the scrawny little figure began to stir, he tore into the sleeve, ripping it to shreds and barked and howled again, turning back for instructions. The sight of the skinny flailing arms sent the coonhound back on its haunches—half guarding, half confused as it turned around yet again, looking down the slope to the creek bed, still waiting for a signal.

  Presently, a tall, rangy man made his way across the same obstacle course, long-handled shovel in hand. But he was only in time to catch sight of a girl clutching her head, staggering away from the scene through the tangles and deepening shadows. Then again, it could’ve been a boy for all he knew, but he settled on a girl, a flat-chested tomboy, more like. Casting his gaze up to the snapped rungs of the tree-ladder, he spotted the broken edge of the rotting hunters blind some eight feet above where she could’ve seen everything.

  The coonhound began circling around him, displaying the shards of material dangling from his jaw. Instinctively, the man rushed forward. Then he thought better of it as his overalls got snagged in the brambles. From the look of things, the girl was probably dazed and confused and wouldn’t get as far as the dirt drive, if that.

  Wrong guess. The slam of a hood as the flat-bed’s worn V-8 motor fired-up, the grinding of gears and the familiar whine and squeal of tires signaled the tomboy was away and well out of reach.

  “Well, Roy,” the man muttered to himself, “best case if she keeps on hightailing it past Holly Springs. Even better if she’s so spooked, she hooks up with 78, crosses the line into Memphis and keeps on a-going till the ol’ wreck breaks down for good.”

  But if she didn’t and stuck around and decided to make trouble . . . But then again, if she was hurt so bad and chilled in this weird Yankee weather sweeping down and pulled over at the hospital to be checked out . . .

  The dog dropped the stringy shards and began licking the blood off the tip of the shovel blade, reminding Roy to put the girl on hold. That he had some unfinished business right here and now. Counting on the pale moon rising for a brief spell, and afterward making sure all that was buried would never see the light of day.

  2.

  The very next day, with snow actually starting to fall early, Josh Devlin knew nothing of what was in store for him. At that moment, he only knew he had come to the end of the line. Down-and-out in Kentucky on a frigid Monday, caught between two humongous mounds of scrap metal, he was surely looking up from the abyss.

  He let the hubcaps and tire iron slip through his fingers and clang to the ground, threw up his hands and walked off the job. Skirting past the stacks of crushed clunkers, moving as far from the scrap yard and office trailer as he could get, he soon found himself somewhere in the vicinity of Maxon Crossing, Old Cairo Road and Steel Road. Still disoriented after a week in West Paducah, he half-heartedly began to make his way back to the shelter, realizing what he was in for. But not caring, not caring about anything.

  Scuffing along, still unable to get his bearings, he barely noticed the honey-blond in the convertible zip by, top snuggly locked down, CD player blasting. She slowed to a crawl, waited for him to catch up, took a long lingering look and sped off again, heading east, probably toward the Riverfront. Time was, she would’ve come to a complete stop and told him to hop in. But that was when his hair wasn’t so long and scraggly and he was beardless. Back in Santa Monica by the Pier, when he had a deep tan and would’ve been taken for a surfer or itinerant bluesman. Else why would he have that set of harps? “So, what’s your story?” the girl always asked. “And what’s with the harmonicas?”

  He had no real answer then and still had no answer even though winter had rolled around again.

  He walked on. He recalled that middle-aged men feel they’ve earned the right to gaze into the empty void, champing at the bit to leave the confines of suburbia and try something new. But he was years shy of middle-age, had nothing tying him down, and vistas of a revived newspaper career from days of yore had proved to be a series of dead ends as print media everywhere kept on folding.

  As his thoughts continued to ramble, he reckoned Dayton was about 375 miles north from where he’d started. From the time his dad declared, “Back when you were twenty and stupid, it was okay to set out for nowhere in particular. Now you’re chucki
ng everything for prospects that don’t exist but still might turn up? That is as boneheaded as it gets.”

  Beale Street and Uncle Billy were about half the distance south with Billy’s pronouncements still fresh in his ears: “Bud, the long and short of it is, you still don’t get it. The licks you manage on those blues harps are good for fills and backup. And all your half-baked notions went out with apple pie and the goddamn American dream.”

  In short, Dayton and Memphis were two compass points on his trek to nowhere.

  Before long, he came upon an abandoned section of leftward railroad track. There in the spray of snowflakes blowing sideways, he spotted a coupling of old Paducah and Louisville boxcars. The lead car was a flaked and faded oxide red, the wheels rusted and pitted, the sliding door and pull-up latch probably frozen as well, leaving an entry gap of no more than three feet.

  Shaking his head, he absentmindedly mouthed the words to that old hobo song:

  Freight train, freight train goin’ so fast

  I don’t know where I am bound, long as I keep movin’ on.

  It was a song about riding the Hi-Line. Way before today’s Freight Train Riders of America: a bunch of crazed drunken guys who liked nothing better than to maim any deadbeat or “citizen” they came across. For all his restlessness, Josh was no train-hopper or anything close. Too wary to pull himself up onto a boxcar as it slows; or leap off, hit the ground running and risk breaking an ankle.

  Continuing to trudge along, soon the old Neil Young song filtered into his thoughts:

  Blue blue windows behind the stars . . . yellow moon on the rise.

  The big birds flying across the sky . . . throwing shadows on my eyes.

  Segueing to:

  We are helpless helpless helpless helpless . . .

  Then back to the blues-harp riff and starting over with:

  In my mind I still need a place to go.

  He stopped as the pinpoints of snow bounced and swirled. He pulled the thin F-key harp out of his denim jacket and blew some bright, sharp licks to wake himself out of his reverie. He pocketed the harp and picked up the pace as the eddies of flakes began to coat the road.

  It seemed like every time he let his mind wander or tried to explain himself to himself, he wound up channeling another lifetime. The pull as strong as ever, the road not taken just over the horizon line; the quest as hopeless as ever and totally at odds with what he knew.

  Shortly, he somehow found himself back at the familiar site.

  As usual, Tracy Judd’s new hybrid took up most of the parking slot. Rundown frame houses flanked the shelter on both sides of the street, their foreclosure and rental signs the only prominent feature. In contrast, even with the wash of sky and snowflakes matching its grayish tone, Tracy’s car served as a clear advertisement for her mission. An example of what could be yours given determination and a little ingenuity even in these hard times.

  Josh brushed the dusting of flakes off the driver’s window and peered inside. As usual, the ignition keys were dangling in full view. Proof her program was working: trust the homeless; give them a second chance to prove themselves, and it’ll pay dividends. At any rate, the ploy had worked for a week since Josh had taken up residence. Worked as far as the most promising inmates were concerned. Worked between the hours of ten and five before Tracy drove off and the hardcore deadbeats began lining up, more than eager for an evening meal, swearing they were sober and free of drugs.

  But Josh was no deadbeat and no bona fide resident either. He was certifiably in limbo.

  He checked the time. It was already past one, no point in any more stalling. Stomping the snow off his boots, he barged into the shelter.

  To his left, balding and gap-toothed Scooter squinted from his perch on the sunken leather couch and gave Josh a high sign. “You too, huh?”

  Ignoring Scooter and the waving elderly volunteer behind the glass partition, Josh entered the hallway. A turn to the left, up the narrow wooden staircase and in seconds he was in Tracy’s office facing the mahogany desk that dominated the room.

  The hard expression on her face said it all, matching perfectly with the wire-rimmed bifocals and navy-blue pant suit. Rising to her full five-foot-five, and without missing a beat, she jerked out the top drawer of the metal cabinet, reached inside, leaned over the desk, slapped the material in front of his eyes and snapped, “I don’t believe this.”

  All laid out were his years in charge of scheduling, logistics, tracking and tracing in five locations. Plus full color advertisement for Dayton Trucking’s expedited same-day pick-up and delivery service, suitable vehicles for every shipping need, etc. Each ad featured a photo of Josh’s dad, head honcho and every bit the ex-starting-guard from Ohio State, stalwartly holding the line.

  Tracy had also placed Josh’s blank record from the Midwest to the West Coast and back front and center. No mention, of course, that he’d cut his losses before setting out: paying off the credit card loans and leases, prepaying all his taxes, written off the personal loans from people who had no intention of paying him back. No mention either that someone swiped his ATM card in Gallup, New Mexico, paving the way to rock bottom.

  Losing her patience, Tracy jumped in with, “How do I reach you? What does it take? How about the old refrain? ‘What were you thinking? A locked-in job and an engagement to a CEO’s daughter. No need to ever retrain or line up at the unemployment office.’ I mean, good God, Joshua!”

  “I know, I know.”

  “So talk to me. I’m doing you a favor, dammit. You wind up here dead broke—”

  “And given a chance to show I can apply myself.”

  “Absolutely. Once and for all flush the daydreams and that stupid journalism degree down the toilet. Hang in there for just a few weeks, I call your dad, get you back in his good graces . . .”

  Pulling back momentarily and then flipping off her bifocals and leaning further over her desk, she added, “And just under three hours, I get this call and learn that you—”

  “I hear you, Tracy. I hear you.”

  Gathering up the papers, stuffing them back into his file, Tracy finally regained her composure, sat herself back down and said, “So get your butt back there. I’ll come up with some excuse, and we’ll just forget about this. I’m sure I don’t have to spell out the alternative.”

  He glanced out the picture window behind her. The swirling flakes hadn’t given an inch.

  “I said, I’m sure you know the drill.”

  “Yes, ma’am, you bet.”

  Josh pivoted around and scuffed back down the stairs. He knew the drill all right. The deadbeats lined up for supper, then trooped over to the church, killed time babbling about their aimless day, conked out on the cots, were tossed out at the crack of dawn with their vouchers. Then tramped over to McDonalds in all kinds of weather, killed some time somewhere till they hit the soup kitchen, killed some more time in the library or floundering around some half-empty mall till they could line up for supper again. As long as they were clean and sober. Otherwise . . .

  Josh whisked past gap-toothed Scooter and the elderly volunteer. Back out into the pinpoints of snow, he barely heard Scooter yelling, “Hey, forget about it! We gotta talk, man! I got a plan!”

  Traipsing along, not even realizing he was heading back in the exact same direction, he couldn’t help recalling the words of the grizzled silversmith in Old Tucson. “What is eating at you, hombre? What you are looking for is what I use here. Something to rub up against to tell what something is made of. Something hard.”

  For some loopy reason, the old man’s riddle applied. If he could get over the way he was wired, if he could get over his laidback nature, he’d love to go up against something—anything that would shake him up and out of this funk.

  Buttoning up his Levi jacket, the overriding frustration stayed with him till the moment he spotted a skinny girl no more than twelve or thirteen. But it wasn’t her age or the fact that she was wandering around an abandoned freight yard i
n the snow. What caught his attention was the way she staggered, clutching the side of her head as she made her way toward the lead boxcar, righted herself and staggered on. And the flimsy windbreaker she had on, shredded and torn at the sleeves. As if some wild creature had been clawing at her and she’d barely managed to break free.

  3.

  “I said, beat it, Jack. I am fine.”

  “Sure you are. Just another shivering kid hoisting herself onto a busted boxcar.”

  “I said get lost!”

  Standing above him, holding on to the rusted boxcar door with her left hand, clutching her forehead with her right, she hollered at him again. But her wet mop of mousy-brown hair, bleary eyes and twitching sliver of a face only added to the picture.

  “Not to jump to any conclusions,” said Josh, “but you might need to see a doctor.”

  “Oh yeah? Well for your information I was told if I can hang on for just—what time is it?”

  Reflexively, Josh reached out for her as she started to sway.

  “Keep away, buddy, I’m warning you.”

  Josh pulled his arms back, waited till she steadied herself and stepped away from her.

  A bit less frantic now, she repeated herself in the same cocky tone. “I said, what time is it?”

  Josh glanced at his watch. “A quarter past two.”

  “Right. If I can keep awake till five or so, I’m home free.”

  “Maybe, but just in case, and before you catch your death and pass out, I’ll be right back.”

  “With what?”

  “With stuff—whatever.”