Chapter 54 - Help He Can Get
EPOV continues...
It was miles and miles of hiking. He didn't know where he stood if anyone asked.
He freed himself from those thieves, that hospital. He ran into his beloved woods, his sanctuary, and he lost them. No fingerprints taken, still a no one. He was relieved.
How did the cops not know? A miracle. He was plucked from the side of a freeway, unconscious. He could have come from anywhere. But it seems they didn't associate him with the speeding van that charged past the border, three men in it still swimming in stolen items from houses all around the area.
Edward was taken into the hospital like a homeless man, beaten up, out of luck, lying on the side of the road. It happens many times. Patrol is used to the pickups of drunken men or dosed up punks with unlucky nights.
Someone, something, was definitely looking out for Edward that night.
Well, he thinks the luck ran out months ago. He's homeless, aimless, and not as efficient as he thought he'd be. These were not his plans. Wherever he's been, it's been struggle after struggle. No ending point or safe spot to camp. Everywhere has felt wrong. He kept moving … to nowhere.
To here.
Edward can barely lift his head. The barn wall his rigid pillow. The sounds of those goats and other animals moving about slowly, and noisily, wake him.
He staggers to his feet and walks. This is all he's got: a pair of feet and a will to get lost.
He finds the open barn door and that hose. Edward runs, then he walks, then he crawls, whichever way to get to it. Two, three, four giant gulps of ice cold water down his throat, to his empty stomach.
He looks around, water trickling down inside his shirt, sopping wet. The warm lights brighten a cottage house just beyond. The porch light lit, waiting for him, he guesses. The old man's words loop through his mind. There's nothing to lose. A lot of his rules have been broken thus far. His kingdom no more.
Right now, he needs food. He's done terrible things to get some. His brain clears up, and he remembers. He ended up once in a cave. He thought he'd found it; a new home. But it was too claustrophobic, and he couldn't see the stars. There were cabins, but too far. Houses, but too busy. Animals, but no way to hunt them. After two weeks, he left.
He found a lake a week later. A good one. Nice trees. Great moonlight every night. But the trails were populated. No nooks. No food. No houses close by to help him.
He broke into a small shed there. Old. The wooden walls almost falling apart. A cot miraculously hung from the piles of things in the back. He sat on it, having a feast he found in a family lake park. Summer in full swing, picnic tables loaded with things. That was easy. He didn't have to disarm a box to grab a helping. The shed suited him well for weeks. But it just wasn't right. The fear of being caught was greater than the calm.
He had to leave.
Edward has walked so much, his boots tore up his feet. The small pools of blood when he untied them was the hardest part. The broken sole, like his broken soul. He feared he'd never find peace.
Snow fell. He was desperate.
A ferry waited by a bay days later. He didn't know where he was, but he stumbled onto a body of water. He watched from far away for a day. Passengers hopped in. Tickets in hand, people were let on to go … somewhere. Plates, silverware, napkins, and glasses filled to the brim with clear water were set up on tables inside. Crates of food were taken in through a dock area. He saw how that ferry functioned, how workers moved about. He could easily sneak in through the back and slide in between storage. Storage full of food.
The desperation was heavy in him. The plan was sloppy, but it was all he had. And the will.
The will.
He broke into those crates once the ferry's doors closed and moved. Motors rowing and vibrating beneath his feet. When they opened back up, he was across the bay.
Well, here.
But where is here?
He stands, rubs the dirt off his hands and coat; the one he grabbed from the last house he broke into. He grabs the duffle bag he got from there, too, seeing as all his stuff was gone, left behind in that van. Nothing in this bag but a few pieces of clothing, a small sleeping bag, and an empty tin water bottle.
The stoop to the cottage house is wooden and worn. He doesn't go further. All he does is sit there and wait. He contemplates leaving, to keep moving. Woods all around, beyond where the barn is. He could go, he could keep walking and out further.
The door swings open. That old man stares down at Edward. Edward stands after a glimpse over his shoulder.
The man waves a hand and walks inside. Edward has to follow now. And when he does, a quaint kitchen is inside. The table covered in a faded red cloth. The stove vintage, the walls adorned with paper, and some parts not. The old man gestures toward a chair, but Edward just stands, the screen door still at his back.
The man sets down a glass bottle of goat milk and a small glass by a full plate already served.
Edward's stomach grumbles.
"You came from the ferry, didn't you?" he asks. Edward doesn't answer, nor do his eyes find the other pair across the room. "Are you a mute?" The old man shuffles his feet uncomfortably. "Autistic? Probably the latter," he mumbles that part.
He watches Edward for a while caving into himself. Silence taking up the room.
"Well, you ain't taking room and board without me giving it. And you sure as shit, ain't taking food unless I'm offering it. In this farm, people work for their share." He waves a hand and adjusts his suspenders. The baldness at his receding lines have freckles. His nose, wide. A tooth is golden, where the front one should be. "It's too early. I don't know why they sent you so soon … and in this state." He refers to Edward's attire. "But we'll have to do, won't we?"
Edward's mouth is watering. His eyes stuck to that plate, nothing else.
"It's twelve hourly for weeding and harvesting. That includes running the machines for processing. While the snow is still on the ground, you can help with the animals, but I'm not paying you for that. I don't cover room and board either. You can go down to the inn. All the guys do for the season."
Edward's brain gets working. He looks up, confused. A job?
"I'll tell you one thing; I don't do drunks. One sign of alcohol in my property, you're out. Now, eat before you drop. I'll show you where the inn is, that's where you'll sleep. It ain't gonna be in my damn barn no more." He mumbles as he files out the kitchen.
Halfway through the beef stew, stuffing that in by the spoonfuls, Edward stops to contemplate this. His eyes over his shoulder toward the screen door. Or maybe he should use his vocal cords and say the honest truth; he's not who the old man thinks he is.
But he doesn't move. The only thing that does move is that spoon over the hot, thick sauce coating the potato cubes, carrots, and tender beef gathered in his plate.
He just can't fight it anymore. He needs all the help he can get.
And this old man is a terribly fine cook.
….