Chapter 38

"Autumn in New England"

I'M HEADED NORTH ON I-88 … WAY PAST BINGHAMTON AND THE POINT OF NO RETURN. I'LL SOON PASS NEAR SCHENECTADY AND LOOK FOR THE TURNOFF ONTO ROUTE 4, WHICH WILL BRING ME CLOSER TO THE FRIENDLY VILLAGES AND TOWNS OF WESTERN NEW HAMPSHIRE. THERE IS STILL A LONG WAY TO GO.

THE SPECTACULAR FOLIAGE OF AUTUMN IS EXPLODING ALL AROUND ME THE FURTHER NORTH I COME, AND I CUT BACK MY SPEED A BIT SO I CAN TAKE A LOOK AT SOME OF IT WITHOUT LANDING IN A DITCH OR UPSIDE DOWN IN THE MEDIAN. REDS AND YELLOWS AND ORANGES BLEND WITH THE FADING GREENS OF SUMMER AND TURN THIS PART OF THE COUNTRY INTO A TAPESTRY OF BEAUTY THAT ONLY MA NATURE CAN WEAVE. FOR A FEW MINUTES I LEAVE ALL THE PAIN AND MISSTEPS OF MY LIFE FAR BEHIND IN THE REARVIEW MIRROR, ALONG WITH THE SEA CHANGES I'VE TRIED TO MAKE RECENTLY. I RAKE THE MOUNTAINS WITH MY EYES, TAKING AN APPRECIATIVE LOOK AT THE REASON WHY I HAVE ALWAYS DREAMED OF COMING TO NEW ENGLAND …

*WOW!*

THE DYNASTY HUMS ALONG THE HIGHWAY TAKING ME FURTHER AND FURTHER FROM THE PLACES I HAVE ALWAYS CALLED 'HOME'. I'M MOVING CLOSER TO OTHER UNKNOWNS WHERE NOBODY KNOWS MY NAME, OR THE FOOL I AM, OR THE JERK I WAS AND STILL CAN BE SOMETIMES. I'M GOING BACK TO SQUARE ONE. SORT OF THE STORY OF MY LIFE. I'M THE GUY FROM "GROUNDHOG DAY" WHO WISHES THE DAMNED GROUNDHOG WOULD JUST CROAK, FOR CHRISSAKE, AND STOP REPLAYING THE SAME BULLSHIT OVER AND OVER.

I'M STILL NOT SURE EXACTLY WHAT I'M LOOKING FOR.

(YES I DO, BUT I DON'T DARE WISH FOR IT FOR FEAR IT WILL JUST DISAPPEAR FOREVER.)

I'M FATIGUED TO THE POINT OF NOT BEING ABLE TO THINK STRAIGHT. NOT TOO BAD PAIN-WISE AT THE MOMENT, BUT WEARY OF THE EFFORT AND THE STRAIN AND THE PUZZLE OF ANOTHER NAMELESS QUEST WITH NO CERTAINTY OF A FAVORABLE OUTCOME.

I FEEL LIKE THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE, GOING WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE. I'M IN UNCHARTED SPACE, AND IT SCARES THE HELL OUT OF ME. MY STOMACH CHURNS AND I'M LOST INSIDE A BUBBLE, GOING UP AND OVER AND AROUND AND AROUND. I'M RUNNING TOWARD THE UNKNOWN SO I CAN LEAVE EVERYTHING FAMILIAR BEHIND. IT SEEMS THAT WHEREVER I GO, THE OGRE OF MY PAST STILL HAUNTS MY FOOTSTEPS, AND MAYBE I'M LOOKING FOR AN ANSWER THAT NO LONGER EXISTS.

Last night I stayed at "The Granite View Motel", deep in the rugged terrain of the beautiful Vermont Granite Mountains. If I can maintain a decent momentum, this might be the last place where I have to pretend I'm just a vagabond on crutches. Within the next day or so I could venture into the state of New Hampshire and find a permanent resting place.

Not like a grave, but like a new lease on life.

As it turned out, the 'motel' consisted of eight tiny cabins, each with its own fireplace for warmth, a water supply located deep underground, and honest-to-god kerosene lanterns for light. The courtyard they circled had a large light on a tall pole that lit the way to a community bath house and toilet facility. There were two other cars parked near the building marked "Office", and I pulled in between the two of them. I saw there were lights on in two of the cabins. Made sense. The lights were flickering like a faraway campfire, and that's how I decided they were lit by kerosene. This place was unique and rustic and waay outdated. It would probably be condemned one day soon as a total fire hazard. But for now, I was determined to enjoy it.

I checked into the office, which had electricity, by the way … about 6:00 p.m. It was already dark. The woman behind the counter was built like a Sherman tank, dressed like a prospector, and talked like a longshoreman. Her husband, who stomped out of the back room soon after I limped inside, looked much the same, but spoke more like someone who had been educated at Yale or Harvard.

*What a weird combination!*

Their names were Margy and Nathan Stern, they told me, and they'd run this place for over twenty- five years. After we'd introduced ourselves and I lowered my backpak to the floor, I looked around the room. There was a small TV hanging on the wall behind the cash register and an old juke box in the corner that looked like the one at Amos's Tiki Bar that had died in the Big Blow. There were also a couple of worn-out restaurant booths lining the opposite side of the room, and I caught a whiff of something good coming from the back. I paid for one of the cabins for a night, picked up the backpak and went over to plop into a seat at one of the booths.

Immediately, Nathan asked about my luggage, and whether I would like him to carry it to my cabin, since he assumed I probably couldn't do it myself … and start a fire in the fireplace. I told him thanks, but I had all I needed in the backpak. A fire in the fireplace would be welcome though. He was a friendly sort, and I saw him glance at my sock foot and the fancy red crutches, and then up at my face and my raggedy hair and the face full of grey-speckled whiskers. I'm not sure what he decided from his observations, but evidently he didn't believe I posed any danger, and decided to give me the benefit of the doubt.

Margy took her cue from her husband, and when he picked up the key to go get a fire going in my cabin, she disappeared into the kitchen, and he, out the front door.

I sat at the booth, beginning to hurt a bit with my leg hanging down like that, but within five minutes she was back with an old stool and a pillow, and directed me to prop my foot on it. Embarrassed at being treated almost like a friend, I complied. The pain diverted a bit and I relaxed. She disappeared again … to the kitchen (I guessed), and came back a few minutes later with a tray containing three big mugs of hot coffee, sugar paks and half'n'half creamer. "I have vegetable soup heating on the stove back there," she said. "You kinda look like you could use some."

I nodded and smiled, wondering if she treated all their guests this way … or just the scraggly ones with crippled legs ... "Sounds wonderful," I said. "Been a long time on the road, and I admit I'm tired and a little hungry. It smells great …"

Ten minutes later Nathan was back. He took a seat across from me just as Margy came out of the kitchen with a tray containing three big bowls of steamy vegetable soup, crowded thickly with plump veggies and hefty chunks of beef. "I set the damper in your cabin to last all night, Kyle. I also turned down your blankets so the bed is warm when you crawl into it. You'll probably sleep really well. Most people do. It's very quiet around here."

"That sounds good. Thanks."

"Where are you from? I can usually come pretty close by listening to a person's use of the language, but you don't seem to have any kind of regional accent."

I laughed softly and looked up to meet his eyes. "I have a 'Military' accent, I guess. My dad was a Marine pilot, and we never stayed in one place long enough to acquire a twang or a drawl that tied us to any one part of the country … or for that matter … the world. I've lived all over. Now that I'm disabled and retired, I'm going to my daughter's place in St. Johnsbury." (Stick to the lie you're used to.)

"Then you have a pretty far piece to go yet," Margy said. "That's way up north, close to the New Hampshire border."

I smiled. "Yeah, but it's not like I'm in any kind of hurry. I'll just take my time and enjoy the scenery."

That night I slept like I had died and gone to heaven. The bed covers were heavy and soft and smelled like piney woods. I fell asleep with dancing flames cracking and popping around fragrant logs in the mountain stone fireplace. From nine at night to nine in the morning, I slept through the night and knew nothing until the edge of bright sunlight ordered my eyes to open and my homesick ass to get ready to head out again.

I clomped over to the office and went inside to greet Nathan and Margy and two younger couples who had obviously stayed in the other two cabins. We all drank coffee and engaged in casual conversation, and I did not feel impatient or pissy with anything anybody said. Mentally, I just turned them off.

The younger ones left before me, and Nathan gathered my backpak and returned it to the front seat of the Dynasty. I bid them both goodbye and told them how well I had slept, and how comfortable the bed had been … and all that nonsense I was learning to use around people I didn't know.

My leg was aching and I popped a couple of Immitrax … I was even getting a feel for which pills to use when I hurt.

I bid a quick goodbye and was back on the highway by 10:00 a.m. The weather was turning colder.

Up ahead, the sign says: "East Lebanon exit. 2 Miles."

And I know Lebanon is where the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center is located. This is the place I want to check out. At least that's what Samuel (Clemens) Adams … the guy with the patriotic name … told me, way-the-hell back in Binghamton, New York … about a fifty years and ten thousand miles ago.

The Dynasty approached the exit and I flipped up the turn signal. I don't know why … there wasn't anything behind me. The car rumbled across the change in pavement as I braked slowly, pushing forward on the handle with my right hand, heading for the stop sign.

Here goes nothing.

The road is alternately straight and winding. Kind of narrow with a high crown and low shoulders. Like some women I have known. I drive carefully and pass a few cars traveling in the opposite direction. There are houses here and there. A few of them have barns and other outbuildings. There are fields with dead cornstalks bowed in the middle and leaning into each other, like children exchanging secrets.

The road passes through stands of pine trees and a few oaks and maples and hickories, and the car moves out of sunlight and into shadow. The canopy overhead obscures the sky completely. I crane my neck to gawk upward from time to time and see the earthy proliferation of autumn colors like a protective shield above me. Then suddenly back into sunlight again.

Fields of mowed grain are yellowed now, and interspersed with tall brown weeds that poke upward like Indians lurking in a thicket. As I drive further in, the number of houses gradually increases and starts to bunch closer together until I realize there is a neat, quiet small town beginning to form around me.

"Well whaddaya know …*

This is Etna. There is a gas station on the right with a convenience store and diner attached. It is almost laughingly rural. The only vehicles parked near it are pickup trucks, an old stake-body, and one huge John Deere tractor with a hay wagon loaded with bales of straw. I smile.

I pull in for gas, realizing with chagrin that there is no full-service island. Well of course there isn't! This is the sticks. Not Manhattan. If I was going to settle down around here, I had to get used to pumping my own goddamned gas. I knew I must get out of the car and maneuver around to use the pump. Then I'd have to haul my crippled ass inside to pay for it … and the hicks will all be staring …

I was halfway out of the car, stuffing my wallet into a back pocket and struggling to get the crutches settled beneath me so my foot wouldn't hit the ground like it did back in Nay Aug Park.

Behind me I heard the door of the convenience store slam shut, and then footsteps on the gravel. I was removing the gas cap and reaching for the hose on the pump. I had a sudden shortage of hands, and juggling three things at once made the maneuver a bit awkward.

Someone walked up behind me and placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. I turned to see a smiling septuagenarian with his other hand held out, pointing to the pump hose. "It's a real sum'bitch when you aint got enough hands, aint it, young feller? How about you hand the damn pump handle to me, and you stand back …"

Any sarcastic remark I might have made regarding my expectations of pity melted away, and I found myself smiling back at him. I squinted instead in the bright sunlight and nodded my head. "You just aint a-whistling Dixie, partner," I quoted from somewhere. I surrendered the hose to him gladly and leaned back against the dusty side of the Dynasty. "Thank you."

"You aint from around here, are yuh?"

"Nope," I said. "I'm not."

"Din't think so. Want me to filler-up?"

"Yeah. Please."

I saw him looking over the car with a speculative eye. "Jersey, huh?" He thrust the nozzle into the tank and squeezed the trigger and locked it.

"Yeah. Came up here to arrange an appointment with a Dr. Thoreau … about my leg …."

*Now why in the hell am I telling him that? As though he would give a shit …*

"That so?" He mused. "I hear he's a good man for that kind of stuff. That med center is pretty big business in this neck of the woods. How long you been on them damn crutches? You look like a pro."

I stared at him. Why did he care? "About two years now, give or take. My leg's been screwed up a lot longer than that. Leg and foot need a lot more attention lately than I can give 'em." Listening to myself talk, I was amazed at the effortless way I fell into his speech patterns and opened up about my physical problem.

"Wal … yuh come to the right place. Ed Thoreau's about the best there is." As he spoke, the gas pump shut off with a loud click and he pulled it out and hung it up in one smooth motion. "About five years ago, Ed's daddy had an accident with his farm tractor … kinda like that one there …" He pointed to the big John Deere and then continued. "It turned over and damn near sliced his arm off. Ed's team patched the old man up, an' today he's good as new. Strong as an ox an' mean as a rattlesnake, Ed says."

I grinned. The old guy put the gas cap back on the Dynasty and snapped the lid shut. Walking close to my shoulder, he accompanied me into the convenience store so I could pay for the gas. He opened the door and stood back while I maneuvered slowly up to the counter. I paid the guy with a fifty dollar bill and shoved the change into a front pocket of my jeans. We nodded at each other, the way guys do.

When I turned to go back to the car, the old geezer opened the door for me again and stood back. I clomped outside and thanked him again.

He said: "Oh sure … happy to do it. I gotta get a move on now, or Nora will throw my supper to the hogs. When you see Ed Thoreau, tell him his dad said 'howdy', and come see us sometime." He looked back at me and winked as he swung up into the John Deere tractor and hit the starter.

*Well, I'll be damned … looks like there's some bullshitters in New Hampshire too!*

I drove on into Etna-proper very slowly, trying to rubberneck without ending up in a ditch. The post office was on the right; a boxy structure painted slate blue with white trim. The front of it was accessible by a set of three steps up to a small porch where a narrow door opened to the inside. I thought: *Oh shit … I might not be able to get in there …* I stopped in front and noticed a matching blue sign with smaller print: "Handicap entrance in rear."

*Oh … oops …*

I idled on down the main drag. Etna had no traffic lights, but there were stop signs at almost every corner. I could see them as little spots of red, lined up like soldiers as far as the eye could see. What a pain in the ass that would be, to have to stop at every other street corner!

In due time I passed the library, three churches, an old school house turned into a town hall; a bank, a fire house, a small market, a drugstore and the only hotel in town. The speed limit was 25 mph, and what little traffic I passed showed no inclination to go any faster than that. Cars were parked parallel on both sides of the street, and there were no parking meters. This place seemed stuck in the 1940s.

When I turned the corner at the other end of the next block, I passed a police station on the left, and it had a shiny black & white 2000-something cruiser parked out front. Assured me I wasn't in the Twilight Zone.

I reached the other end of town and the road leading out … in short order. One thing I noticed as I passed: the vast majority of private properties here were well maintained. It looked like a storybook town lifted from the pages of a child's fairy tale and plunked down here. The streets were lined with beautiful old trees, and a fire plug here and there.

There were people on the sidewalks. I saw a lady walking a dog and a man with a bag of groceries. There were kids on bikes and others lobbing footballs back and forth. I wondered what they did for entertainment. Probably went over to Lebanon to the mall or to the nearest Wal-Mart.

I circled around at the last block and headed back to the street where I'd seen the hotel. The Watson Inn was a big three-story brick structure with wide front façade and a large parking lot. Across the street from it was a big brown, wood-shingled apartment building with a handicap logo on the front wall. I slowed down and pulled across to the curb. I scribbled down the phone number of the real estate office on the only piece of paper I had … a ten-dollar bill. I would, after all, need a place to live if I decided to stay.

A minute later I pulled into the parking lot of the Watson Inn, shut off the ignition and climbed clumsily out of the car. The warning signs of trouble ahead with my damn leg were nagging me, and no matter how I turned or tried to maneuver it, it hurt … and hurt a lot. Too many hours on the road and too many times ignoring what was happening to my physical body were taking a toll. It was promising to blossom into something spectacular if I didn't soon tend to it.

I picked up my backpak and made my way out of the parking lot, across the veranda and reached for the entry door. I thumbed the latch and prepared to back into it in order to swing it open. Out of nowhere a woman in a yellow waitress uniform stood with her foot against the bottom of the door, blocking me from sprawling on my rear end. A little late I discovered it was automatic, and it meant business.

"Easy there," she said in a soft, small voice. "I have the door. It can be a little tricky, especially if you're not familiar with the way it works. I have it now. Steady yourself against it and back off a little. Then you can come in without being in danger of falling."

I listened to what she said and narrowly averted a clumsy disaster. "Thank you. I almost made a spectacular three-point landing there …" I felt myself laughing with nervous embarrassment as I splayed the crutches and regained an uneasy balance.

She backed out of my path as I swung around to face her. "I didn't mean to startle you," she said. "But I saw you coming, and sometimes people who walk with crutches turn around and back into doors like this one, thinking they are difficult to open. This one is on an electric eye. Are you okay? You haven't hurt yourself, have you?"

I held up my hand and shook my head, even though my entire leg was thumping with pain. "I'm fine, but I'm very glad you were here to help."

She smiled, and it was infectious. She was tiny. No taller than the crest of my shoulder. She was shaped like a snowman … large ball at the bottom, a smaller ball in the middle and a perfectly shaped full-moon face at the top. Stubby legs beneath. Her hair was black with gray streaks and pulled back into a bun at the back of her head. There were bristles of hair sticking out, like a ball of black yarn with knitting needles still imbedded. Her eyes were lightly slanted, and I decided she had Asian blood … either that or her hair was pulled so tight that her eyes stretched out horizontally.

I limped slowly over to the registration counter and she followed close behind me, her hand hovering in a protective gesture near the small of my back.

*Oh shit … I have another mother!*

The man behind the desk watched the two of us approach, and when I stopped and leaned my elbows on the surface, he said something to her just below the range of my hearing. The strange little woman turned away and patted me on the arm. She looked back with a smile as she disappeared beyond a pair of bat-wing doors. She was probably needed in the dining room.

I watched her go, slightly intrigued.

"May I help you, sir?" The man inquired.

"I need a room," I said. "Is there one with handicap accommodations? Preferably first floor. I don't move very fast or very well. I may be here a few weeks … or longer. I don't know yet." I swung my backpak down from my shoulder and dropped it on the floor.

"We don't have rooms with handicap designation, per se," he said. "But there is one on the first floor with hardwood floors, wide doorways, low thresholds and a whirlpool bath. This is the slack season around here, you see. All the Snowbirds have flown the coop for southern sun and sandy beaches, and it's going to be pretty quiet until closer to Thanksgiving. Back that hallway …" and he indicated the area behind me, "is the best we can do. It has been used by handicapped people on occasion, and no one has ever had any complaints."

I looked where he pointed and saw that the hallway was wide, but not long. "Sounds good. It can accommodate a wheelchair as well, right? Sometimes I just have to get off these things …"

"I understand," he conceded. "Do you have luggage?"

I nodded. "I do. It's in the trunk of my car, as well as my wheelchair."

He relaxed, finally, and his expression became more friendly. "We'd be happy to bring them in for you, sir. I need you to sign the register. The room is $150 a week in advance." He pushed a large door key across the counter toward me as I dug out my wallet. My name is Vern, Mr. Calloway."

I nodded acknowledgment; opened my wallet and laid the money on the counter before him. He eyed me closely, but said nothing.

"My car is the old blue Dynasty in your handicap spot … and here is the key.

He frowned. "Dodge Dynasty? Really?"

I nodded. "That's what they all say …"

I picked up the backpak and turned around to walk away. He would probably like me better after I had a bath and a shave …

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