Rich has returned to the home he ran away from six years earlier. He’s back living with his parents, hoping to make amends for the pain he caused them. Two years have passed since returning home. That’s where this story begins.
(Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)
Episode 21
He slowed at a crossroads bearing a sign: Vincent. Dilapidated wooden buildings stood at the four corners. One looked like a grocery store. A rusted Wonder Bread sign hung beside the front door. A rusted Fleetwing sign hung above an overhang attached to an abandoned gas station. Two white globes rested above two rusted and paint-peeled gas pumps. The two other buildings looked as if they had not been used in years. They were boarded up.
Rich pulled the Jeep beside the pumps. He shut off the engine and relaxed. He closed his eyes. He wanted to think and sleep. He dozed off.
“Hey, hey, you!”
Rich jerked. He did not know how long he had slept. He knew it hadn’t been long because it still looked like morning. He looked around to see where the voice came from.
An old man in overalls stood at the rear of the Jeep. “We’re closed. Been closed since 1959.”
Rich stepped out of the Jeep. “Ah, that’s too bad,’’ he grinned. “I was hoping for an oil change, lube job, and fill-up.”
“Well, you’re twelve years too late,” the man said.
“Actually,” Rich said, “I’ve been driving all night and needed a place to rest my eyes.”
“There’s not a motel on this stretch of highway for I don’t know how far,” the man said. “I don’t mind if you sleep here. I’d rather see ya do that than wrap this thing around a telephone pole.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, sir,” Rich said. “Is there someplace I can park where it’s out of the way?”
“You can pull around in the back,” the man said. “You catch the shade all day long.”
“I’d be happy to pay for the spot,” Rich offered.
“Not necessary,” the man said. “You go get your rest. Now, I might be making some noise. I’m doing some work in the garage. I still do mechanical work. I have an air compressor and some other tools.”
Rich pulled out his wallet. “Here’s five dollars. It just doesn’t feel right not to pay you.”
“Likewise,” the man said, “it doesn’t feel right to take your money.”
“I’d sure sleep easier if you’d take the money,” Rich said.
“Far be it from me to rob a man of much-needed sleep,” the man grinned and winked. “We’ll negotiate after you get rested. Negotiating with a tired man, well, that ain’t right. I’d take advantage of ya.”
Rich pulled the Jeep under the shade behind the building. He unrolled his sleeping bag onto the ground beside the Jeep. He quickly drifted off into sleep.
Three hours went by, and he woke up. He opened the back door to the building. The old man was inside lifting a motor from a car with a winch.
“Let me give you a hand,” Rich said.
They pulled on the winch together and guided it to an engine stand.
“What are you going to do with this?” Rich asked.
“Rebuild it,” the man said. “Belongs to a guy down the road a couple of miles. He’s had it since he got out of the Army. Forty-six Hudson.”
“Super Six?” Rich asked.
“You know your engines?” the man asked.
“No,” Rich said. “I’ve read about it. And my mom and dad were Hudson people.”
A sudden empty feeling came over him. Mom and Dad are... were, not are. That's hard to accept.
The man held out his hand after wiping it with a rag. “I’m Enid Nolton.”
“Enid, I’m Will Paxton,” Rich said.
“Will,” Enid said, “you look to me like a guy who could use breakfast. But if you don’t, I sure do. I live upstairs.”
Rich followed Enid up a staircase in the garage and to an apartment over the gas station. It was a cozy place. Clean, but dated. It looked like a cabin from a Depression-era photo. It had a small TV and an old gas stove. The refrigerator had the compressor on top. A wood-burning stove sat in the corner. Two cushioned chairs sat in front of it. There was a wooden kitchen table with two matching chairs.
“This is home,” Enid said.
“Indeed,” Rich said, “it is a good home.”
Rich drifted toward a corner bookcase that was from floor to ceiling. “What do you have, two hundred books?”
“Three hundred and forty-five to be exact,” Enid said. “Everything from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to Zorba the Greek, from Aesop to Zweig.”
“I’m not familiar with Zweig,” Rich said.
“Hitler was and didn’t like him,” Enid said. “Good writer.”
Enid began to assemble pans, plates, silverware, and items from the refrigerator.
“Let me help,” Rich said. “I’ve lived on my own for quite a while. I can handle stuff without dropping or breaking it.”
“Is that so?” Enid said.
“I’ve cooked on high seas on a forty-foot schooner,” Rich said.
“The devil, ya say,” Enid said. “You’ll have to tell some of your tales. So sit, talk, and I’ll do the rest.”
Rich sat. “If those are your terms, I’ll abide by them. What do you want to hear—South America, Pacific Islands, Africa, Caribbean? Whatever you like.”
“You ever been to Australia?” Enid asked, busy with his back to Rich.
“Three thousand miles of coastline,” Rich began, “with white sandy beaches that drift as far as your imagination. Jagged red cliffs that drop into the sea like the edge of a table. And waves that dance like a flickering campfire.”
And Rich continued to talk until Enid placed a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee on the table. They ate as they talked. Rich continued to tell him about riding across Australia on a train.
“How did you happen to go there?” Enid asked. “What I mean is, why?”
“I guess it was just something I wanted to do,” Rich said.
“Remarkable,” Enid said. “I think I’ve been every place you have been, in my mind. It’s right over there in that corner.” Enid nodded toward his books.
“That’s not so bad,” Rich said, “because that’s where it is with me. Once you do it, the only thing left is the memory of it.”
“You remind me of a man who sailed with me,” Rich said. “He was a master boat builder. They called him Salty. He sailed with me from Maine to an island named Barbuda. An island with warm, friendly people and pink sand. Later, we met up again in Australia. He was a good mate. In a short time, he taught me a lot. Not just about boats, sailing, and the sea, but about myself.”
“It sounds like you miss him,” Enid said.
“I do,” Rich said. “But I’ve been lucky in my life. I’ve run into a lot of good people. The world is full of them.”
“You say that like a man who has encountered some bad ones too,” Enid said.
“I have,” Rich said. “There have to be some bad ones, so you know who the good ones are.”
“You’re running from the bad ones, aren’t you?” Enid said.
“What makes you think so?” Rich asked.
“The way you introduced yourself,” Enid said. “That is not your name. Every little sound makes you look around. You wanted to sleep out of the way. It was important to you, not just a convenience. How am I doing?”
“A man with an impressive library living in an old ramshackle dwelling. Willingly harbors someone he is suspicious of, has a collection of books any scholar would be proud to have, and has the neatest and cleanest tools of any mechanic I’ve seen.”
“Perhaps I’m eccentric,” Enid said.
“And perhaps I’m everything you think I am,” Rich said.
“You have indeed been all the places you say you have been,” Enid said. “Enough of the games. I was a doctor who stopped practicing medicine. I lost a patient because I was drunk. I was absolved by the medical board but not by my own personal ethics. For the last twenty years, I neither drink nor tend to the sick. Oh, occasionally I’ll give somebody a tip, but no one around here knows my past. However, if they do, I’m not aware. They’re just happy to have a good auto mechanic.”
Rich paused and pursed his lips.
“This is some sort of barroom I-tell-you-a-sad-story-and-you-tell-me-a-sad-story,” Enid said. “It’s just that I see something in you. And it’s good. And if my story makes you comfortable, that’s all I want.”
“You see, Doc,” Rich grinned.
“Please,” Enid grinned, “it’s Enid.”
Rich continued. “If I tell you, it could put you in a compromising position. It’s best I don’t.”
“Understood,” Enid grinned. “Even though I’m covered under doctor-patient privilege.”
“Is it okay if I stay until dark?” Rich asked.
“You can catch some more sleep up here,” Enid said, “but I doubt you will be comfortable. I’ll tell you what, did you notice that old truck camper beside the building?”
“I did,” Rich said.
“It’s an IH B140 four-by-four,” Enid said. “A guy had me do some work on it. He couldn’t pay, so I kicked in another grand, and it became mine. I was going to take a trip in it, but I decided against it. Tell ya what I’ll do. We trade your Jeep for my truck camper. I’ll make sure everything is good on the truck. I’ll change the oil, new belts, good antifreeze, and make sure the brakes are good; you know, roadworthy. You see, truck campers and motorhomes are seldom stopped by the law. They don’t raise suspicion. That Jeep of yours stands out like a sore thumb.”
Rich rubbed his chin. “How long will it take to get the truck ready?”
“Let’s take a couple of days,” Enid said.
“Enid,” Rich said, “I’m a suspect in the murder of my parents. I didn’t do it. My lawyer died yesterday. And at the same time, I got word I was about to be arrested. If my lawyer had lived, I would not have run. I made an enemy of the sheriff by quoting him during an interview. The evidence they have is circumstantial at best. There’s compelling evidence of my innocence. It’s an election year for the sheriff. I didn’t do myself any favors by running, but I felt I was doomed if I stayed.”
“Do you have any idea who killed your parents?” Enid asked.
“No,” Rich said.
“How were they killed?” Enid asked.
“Stabbing and a gunshot each to the head,” Rich said.
“Neither you nor your parents own a gun?” Enid asked.
“I don’t, and I’m pretty certain Dad didn’t,” Rich said. “He had an old squirrel rifle, that’s it.”
“I take it there was blood all over the place?” Enid asked.
“That was something that baffled Hiram,” Rich said. “For all the stab wounds, there was not that much blood.”
“They were shot first, and then stabbed,” Enid said.
“How do you know?” Rich asked.
“I take it the place wasn’t a mess either?” Enid said.
“From what Hiram told me, no,” Rich said.
“You’ve never seen the crime scene photos?” Enid asked.
“No.”
“I understand,” Enid replied. “In addition to being an alcoholic doctor, I was a coroner. I know what crime scenes are supposed to look like. Were there knives present?”
“We had supper together that night,” Rich said. “My mom and dad had a steak knife, and so did I.”
“And one was missing, right?” Enid asked.
“Yes,” Rich said, surprised.
“And found with your prints on it,” Enid said.
“Yes,” Rich said.
“The gun found, right?” Enid asked.
“Yes.”
“Not far from your house?” Enid asked.
“Yes.”
“I know it wasn’t you,” Enid said. “I would never suspect you. I’d say offhand, you are repulsed by violence. Although you appear nervous, that’s your survival instincts. You waxed nearly poetic while talking about Australia. Guilty men don’t freely give up anything. They’d say, ’I was in Australia; what do you want to know? South shores, boring.’ You allowed yourself to go back there, not to escape but to share. You are a writer, perhaps?”
“I wrote for a newspaper,” Rich said. “And I’ve published two novels.”
“Look at all those books,” Enid said. “I know the difference between reporting and writing.”
Rich stood and began to clear the table. “What are you doing?” Enid said.
“I’ll clean this up,” Rich said. “You have a patient downstairs on the motor stand. When I’m done, I could use another couple of hours’ sleep. I’ll be wasted for the rest of the day, but perhaps tomorrow we can do some work on the camper.”
“Splendid idea,” Enid said.
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