Chapter 35

"Where the Wild Goose Goes …"

"MY HEART KNOWS WHAT THE WILD GOOSE KNOWS …

"AND I MUST GO WHERE THE WILD GOOSE GOES .. "

IT GETS MONOTONOUS DRIVING ALONG A MOSTLY STRAIGHT INTERSTATE HIGHWAY HOUR AFTER HOUR.

WHEN FRANKIE LAINE CAME ON, BUSTING A GUT WITH HIS LUSTY RENDITION OF "THE CRY OF THE WILD GOOSE", I STARTLED MYSELF BACK TO RED ALERT AND STAYED THAT WAY FOR A HUNDRED MILES.

IT'S A BOISTEROUS SONG!

IF WEST VIRGINIA HAS ANYTHING TO WRITE HOME ABOUT, IT'S THE OVERKILL OF HILLBILLY RADIO STATIONS. YOU COULDN'T STICK A PIN BETWEEN THEM ON THE DIAL. I WISHED I HAD SOME TAPES FOR THE CAR'S CASSETTE PLAYER, BUT THEY'RE ALL PACKED AWAY IN PRINCETON. AND THERE'S ALMOST NOPLACE YOU CAN BUY 'EM NEW ANYMORE … THEY ONLY SELL 'EM AT YARD SALES AND FLEA MARKETS. I WOULD HAVE ENJOYED SOME BLUES IF I'D HAD ANY. DAD'S ARE ALL IN PRINCETON.

I THOUGHT FONDLY OF HOOLEY AND HIS BIG FLOOR-MODEL ZENITH, AND SOME OF THE MUSIC WE'D ENJOYED ON IT AND CONVERSATIONS WE HAD ON THE FRONT PORCH OF MY SHACK ON THE BEACH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.

*AH HELL, HOUSE, DON'T GO GETTING ALL SENTIMENTAL HERE AND DRIVE THE DAMN CAR ONTO THE MEDIAN. YOU PAID SIX GRAND TO GET THE DAMN THING FIXED!*

I was nearing Morgantown, and I was completely out of clean clothes. My backpak was beginning to look skinny because my dirty laundry was all stuffed into two pillowcases in the trunk. Pillowcases I'd swiped a long time ago from some Holiday Inn or Marriot … I don't even remember anymore.

I was still putting off a visit to someplace where I could buy some traveling clothes; stuff that would be comfortable during long hours on the road. I decided I might as well get off the interstate and get it over with. The wheelchair would be a pain in the ass to wrestle out of the trunk, but I had no choice.

I watched the highway and went off at the Morgantown exit where there was a Motel 6 and a K-Mart and a generic gas station of some sort. I pulled up to the full-service pump at the gas station next to the K-Mart and killed the engine. It was about 5:00 p.m. and the place was teeming.

A young woman in a blue and white uniform stepped out of the office and approached me. She saw my New Jersey 'handicap' license plates and the crutches propped conveniently against the seat. She leaned down near the window and said: "Fill 'er up, sir?"

I said: "Yup … and check up front, okay?" I pulled the lever that released the hood, and she nodded and retreated back to the pumps and the Dynasty's gas tank.

I listened to the nozzle hitting the rim, and the gush of liquid pouring into the tank. While it filled, she lifted the hood and removed the dip stick. I could see her hands between the raised hood and the top of the engine as she checked oil, water, and washer fluid. I started the engine so she could check transmission fluid also. All good. She lowered the hood and latched it firmly. She sloshed the windshield with cleaning fluid and wiped it off, along with the splattered accumulation of bugs, in a flurry of motion. The gas feed snapped off and she lifted the toggle and hung the thing up. Bingo!

I pulled out my wallet and had a hundred dollar bill ready when she approached the drivers' side again. "You're good to go, sir. Up front is good, and your gas comes to 43.50. Can I get you anything else?"

I handed her the money and nodded. "Would you please bring me a bag of candy bars and snacks for the road? Mix 'em up any way you want. I'm not fussy."

She took the bill and grinned. "Sure. Be happy to do that." She turned around and hurried into the office. I watched her fanny undulate as she disappeared inside. What she brought back a minute later was a medium-size brown paper bag stuffed with candy bars, chips and pretzels. I took the bag through the window and waved away the fistful of bills and change. "Keep it," I said. "For your trouble. Thank you."

She beamed. "Jeez … thanks, Mister. You have a good night now … okay?"

I threw her a highball salute, started the car and pulled away from the pump. I saw her in the rear-view mirror, hands in her pockets, looking after me sadly.

If only I hadn't seen that part …

The K Mart excursion was a total pain in the ass. Literally. That is, until I got in there and happened to run into Oliver …

I managed to wrestle the damned wheelchair out of the trunk. Up over the lip and down onto the pavement with a bang. I slid the footrests into place, cocked the right one a little higher, and tossed the crutches in where the chair had been. Hopping around like a human pogo stick, I slammed the trunk lid and launched myself into the chair without setting the brakes. The chair took a leap backward and came to a stop against the bumper of a station wagon even older than the Dynasty. I clutched the backpak in my lap and looked around to get my bearings. This trip was taking its toll. Pain was ramping up. I dug in my shirt pocket for the Vicodin. Stronger than the Immitrax. The hell with the side effects! I popped two of them and settled my hands onto the wheel rims.

Even though I had parked the car in a handicap spot, I still had to run the gauntlet of traffic to get across to the store. Drivers seemed to aim for the wheelchair as though I was some invader to their domain, and two cars buzzed past right behind me by the time I'd located the ramp to get inside.

*Jesus!*

Foot traffic in the store was almost as thoughtless. Always in a hell of a hurry, people cut in front of me and jittered around in the aisles like fleas. They did not watch where they were going or seem to care. They would stop short in front of me to gawk at something, and one asshole turned around to bitch at me when I ran into his ankles. When he saw I was in a wheelchair, he cursed and hurried away in the opposite direction. God, how I hate that! It was a busy store, and I had no clue where anything was.

Finally, I moved off to the side and just sat there looking around in confusion.

I saw the man in the black pants and white shirt walking in my direction, but assumed he would pass by and continue on his way. He was of small stature and moved with a slight limp. He was using a cane. Instantly I began a diagnosis. Couldn't help it. Diagnostics … in my blood. Something haywire in his ankle or lower leg. Or both. Accident; not a disease or affliction.

I put his age at about sixty or so. He was thin and wiry with a hawk nose and trim gray mustache. What hair he had left was silver, and parted in the middle. He walked right up to me and bent over me to hold out his hand. "I'm Oliver Edmonds," he said. "Is there anything I can do to give you a better chance at navigating this circus act? You seem a little reluctant, and people aren't treating you very kindly … if I may be so bold. Are you okay?"

I took his hand and shook it briefly. "I'm … Kyle Calloway. I'm not only confused and sore; I'm totally lost and out of my element. My luggage was stolen from my car about a hundred miles back, and I'm on my way to my daughter's place in Vermont. I didn't have time for the police to track it down, so I need to replace everything from the skin out. I don't know where to start. I seem to be in everybody's way."

I hoped he would swallow my line of bull. It even sounded legitimate to me.

He did. His expression was instantly sympathetic. "I understand completely, Kyle … I do." He pointed to the corner behind me where there stood a large wheelchair equipped with a shopping basket attached to the front. "Are you able to move well enough to transfer across to that chair? You can leave yours here until you get everything you need. I'd be happy to run interference for you."

His offer seemed too good to be true. I looked up at him for a moment, gauging his intent. "Really? I would appreciate that. You seem a lot more familiar with this place than I am. I think I can switch chairs okay if I take it slow. Believe me, Oliver; I can use all the help I can get." More and more I surprise myself by accepting proffered help, and experiencing gratitude for it as well.

"Let's do it then." He pulled the larger chair parallel to mine and held it firmly in place while I lifted my leg down, stood slowly, and hop-stepped across. "Can't take weight, huh? What was it that hurt you, if I may ask …?"

I stared hard at him for a moment, but saw only a pair of kindly dark eyes filled with interest and concern. "Blood clot in my thigh," I said cautiously. "Infarcted. Cut off the circulation. They later debrided and it saved my life, but left me with this." The oversimplification sounded inane, even to my own ears, but Oliver was listening carefully, refraining from sympathetic comment. I was also grateful for that.

"A lot of pain?" He asked simply. We were moving ahead now, turning down one of the men's clothing aisles.

"Oh yeah. Every day. What about you?" What the hell … I wasn't sure if I cared, but I owed him the courtesy of asking …

He paused a moment, blocking the aisle, making people backtrack grudgingly around us. I found some satisfaction in that. "I used to be a jockey," he said. "Believe it or not. The horse I was riding had a fatal heart attack in the backstretch. Dropped dead under me. The rest of the field knocked me into the rail. I hit a metal brace on the infield fence. It shattered my ankle; tibia was broken in nine places. They put me back together with spit and baling wire. It was a long time ago. Early '80s. I've gotten used to it. Pain is intermittent. The nerves fire and then die. Today is one of my better days." He laughed softly without humor. "We have to take what life dishes out, eh?"

I snorted a huff of sarcastic laughter. "Yeah … but I still kick and scream sometimes. Like today. Thirty years is a long time though. Maybe your leg could be surgically repaired now, so you could walk a little better."

Oliver shook his head. "Nothing to repair. What's in there is mostly cold hard steel with synthetic skin stretched over it. Cold in winter, hot in summer. They picked all the bone fragments out with tweezers and threw them in the trash. But I can still walk … a miracle in itself."

I cringed. "Jeezus!"

He pulled back on the handles of the wheelchair and we stopped in the middle of an aisle full of men's underwear. "May as well begin at the beginning," he quipped.

"Yeah … let's …"

I found my size and pulled out three-paks of everything. Nine pairs of gray rag socks, nine tee shirts, nine pairs of gray boxer briefs. Sweat pants and shirts: three of each, dark gray, all they had in my size. Dumped them in the basket and moved on. Men's dress shirts: Four. Dark blue, light blue, white and lavender. Six pairs of blue jeans and two pairs of tan chinos later, and the basket was full to the rim. A few of the slippery plastic wrappers were threatening to slide out onto the floor.

Oliver guided me to the display of small electrics where I picked out an electric beard trimmer and a fancy Gillette razor with a couple packs of extra blades. In 'Cosmetics' I chose a stick deodorant and a bottle of men's cologne. Crammed everything down along the edges of the basket among the socks and underwear and pants and shirts. That should be it. Except maybe a carryall to pack it into once I settled in at a motel.

I sat back and turned to look up. "Do you have plans for this evening, Oliver? Or are you free for the next couple of hours?"

"Nothing specific," he replied. "Why?"

"Well … selfish reason. I'm hungry, I soon have to pee, and I don't know the territory. It would be nice to go somewhere on your recommendation and have a decent dinner. On me … as a thank-you for your help today. If you hadn't shown up, I would probably still be tossed around in the tide and end up getting run over."

He chuckled and looked at me, considering. "I," he finally said, "would be delighted. The motel across the street has an excellent restaurant. I eat there often. But before we do that, I should go down to the sports section and grab a carryall to put this stuff in. If you want to go over to the checkout awhile, I'll get you one. Any color preference? One with wheels?"

I shrugged, looking around for the checkout lane he'd mentioned. "Wheels would be good," I said. "Any color but pink."

He laughed out loud. "Okay. Go to the last register on this side. Lucy will take good care of you." He turned to leave, but I called out sharply …

"How do you know who'll take good care of me? You a regular customer here or something?" I was being funny, but he got me good with his answer.

"I damn-well better be," he said with a huge grin. "I'm the manager …"

I got out of there for a little more than five hundred bucks that day. When I finally arrived at my permanent landing place, wherever that might be, I would have enough stuff to open a small second-hand place of my own. I still had a closetful of clothing locked away in Princeton.

Oliver and I had dinner at the restaurant in the Motel 6 that he'd recommended. While we waited to be served, I looked around the place and liked what I saw.

I was hungry as a bear … for something not made from hamburger or some other throw-away meat. Something good. Stick-to-the-ribs good. I wanted a nice table before me with a nice tablecloth on it and a big menu to order from. Someplace where they give you a glass of ice water the minute you sit down and then ask what else you would like to drink. Service with a smile. Where a waiter or waitress has placed real silverware and a real napkin in front of you. Someplace where you can get a vegetable. Someplace populated with civilized diners and no squally brats running roughshod all over the place …

This place!

It was called: "The Farmer's Home". The staff knew Oliver well and seated us carefully. His bad leg was toward the wall, and my crutches hung on a hook at my side and I was turned in such a manner that my own messed-up leg was protected from harm beneath the table.

We were sitting near the back of the place where a big window looked out on a country road lined with conifers and deciduous trees in the full bloom of autumn. A few cars passed by on the road, and you would never guess that a busy shopping center lay across the teeming highway in the opposite direction. West Virginia was enjoying a turning of the colors also.

We were quickly served water in frosty glasses, and cups of piping hot coffee in huge Earthenware mugs. There were country creamers and maple sugar packets for embellishment. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

We dined on pig. Roast pork that melted in your mouth like cotton candy. Just enough dark gravy to cover the meat and potatoes and filling, but not enough to flood the plate. Grilled asparagus in a separate dish; chopped, buttered onions smothered in cheese sauce accompanied the asparagus. Sharp and smooth and creamy at the same time. Baked corn that popped between your teeth with liquid ambrosia. Cole slaw dipped with an ice cream scoop so you almost felt like you were taking bites out of a baseball.

For dessert, pumpkin custard pie topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. More of that wonderful coffee. The only other time I had tasted food created in this manner was at Aunt Sarah's place around Christmastime when I was a kid. It was almost orgasmic, and I had to loosen my belt two notches.

I don't think Oliver was in much better shape than I was.

"When you said this was a good restaurant, you weren't kidding," I told him.

"Yeah. I know," he replied. "My wife used to run this place. Most of the recipes were hers. When I get lonely for her, I come here. I always bring friends from out of town here …"

His words were tinged with regret and loss. "She's gone, isn't she?" I asked boldly. I decided he would still feel as bad if I had asked the question in a more reverent manner."

"She is." Oliver said. "Cancer. Five years ago."

"I'm sorry …"

"Don't be. She wouldn't like it, and I need to keep going until we meet up again."

"What was her name?"

"Emily. Emmy Edmonds. Are you married, Kyle?"

I shook my head and held up my naked left ring finger. "No. Not now. I was for a while, but it didn't take. She left, and I have no idea where she is now."

"Ah," he said. "But you have your daughter in Vermont …"

I was about to say "huh?" … but remembered my cock'n'bull story to him earlier. "Yeah … her name is Dominika. She has a daughter too." I thought of Rachael Cuddy and swallowed the lump in my throat. I had liked that little rug rat in spite of myself. She wouldn't be so little now …

The evening ended on a rather minor note after that.

At that moment, I would have given anything I owned for one of Hooley's cigars and an hour's smutty conversation on the cabin's front porch.

When we left there, I slipped a folded fifty beneath the edge of my coffee cup when I went to pay the check. The meal and the service and the company, plus the enormous bill, had been worth every penny. I had made a new friend, shared a few moments of sorrow, and learned another valuable lesson: people are pretty much like animals in large groups. But when you meet them one-on-one, they're wonderfully goodhearted. They also have problems and regrets and heartaches, just like the rest of us.

This business of practicing to be a gentleman isn't such a bad gig after all.

Maybe.

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