Chapter 45

"Following the Old Wild Goose"

I'M HEADED NORTH ON I-95, ABOUT TO CROSS INTO PENNSYLVANIA.

OLD 'VANNA' SCOOTS ALONG LIKE SHE WAS BORN TO THE CHASE. THE CLAMSHELL CARRIER ON THE ROOF CATCHES WIND GUSTS AND BOBS THE CAR AROUND LIKE A CORK ON A FISHING LINE. THE SKY IS DARKENING AND IT'S TRYING TO RAIN. MAYBE I WILL GET LUCKY AND FIND A PLACE TO STOP WHERE THE RAIN ON THE ROOF LULLS ME TO SLEEP AND I CAN FORGET ABOUT WEST PALM BEACH, GRESH CLINIC, AND THE TOO-AMOROUS LADY WITH ALZHEIMER'S.

I FIGHT THE WHEEL AND WISH THE WIND WOULD DIE DOWN A LITTLE. I HAVE THE IMPRESSION THAT I'M LOST IN THE MIDDLE OF SOME FANTASTICAL DREAM. THE MILES ARE WEARING ME DOWN. MY EYES ARE SCRATCHY AND THE SCENERY IS BLURRING, AND I NEED TO DIG MY GLASSES OUT OF THE CARRYALL.

I CAN ALWAYS TELL WHEN I'M ON THE ROAD TOO LONG. I'M TIRED OF RADIO STATIONS THAT PLAY THE SAME STUFF OVER AND OVER AGAIN AND ALL THE VOICES SOUND LIKE THE GIRL SINGER BACK IN DAYTONA: NEVER QUITE ON KEY. TOO BAD I WAS CURSED WITH PERFECT PITCH … A LATENT TALENT I SHARE WITH HOUSE.

*HMMM … EVEN WHEN HE'S NOT AROUND, HE IS! MY RESTLESS THOUGHTS TELL ME THAT THE ULTIMATE PURPOSE OF THIS TRIP IS TO HUNT THE BASTARD DOWN! LET HIM KNOW I'M SORRY FOR NOT BELIEVING IN HIM … AND I'M STILL HIS FRIEND … IF HE'LL HAVE ME …*

MY BUTT IS NUMB AND MY LEGS AND SHOULDERS FEEL LIKE THEY'RE TURNING TO WOOD. I'M HUNGRY AND STIFF. IT'S WAY PAST TIME TO STOP SOMEWHERE TO RELAX AND LOOSEN THE KINKS FROM MY BACK AND GET OUT OF THE WIND, AND PROBABLY BEFORE LONG, THE RAIN.

I DITCHED RT. 95 NEAR THE CITY OF CHESTER AND TURNED ONTO 476, HEADED TOWARD ALLENTOWN. SOMEWHERE NEAR THERE I CAME IN FOR A LANDING AT A RAMSHACKLE LITTLE INDIE MOTEL NEAR WHITEHALL. IT'S IN A SPARSELY POPULATED AREA, BUT WITH ENOUGH FARMS AND RURAL FOLKS IN RESIDENCE TO KEEP IT UP AND RUNNING. IT WAS SMALL AND SET BACK OFF THE ROAD. THERE WAS A DINER AND A CONVENIENCE STORE AND A GAS STATION. THE SIGN ON THE ROOF SAID IT WAS THE "WANDER-INN". DOWN-HOME HUMOR.

NOT NORMALLY MY KIND OF PLACE, BUT THERE WERE A FEW CARS IN FRONT AND AN OLD PETERBILT CAB WITH AN EMPTY CAR CARRIER HOOKED TO IT, CURLED IN A SEMI-CIRCLE TOWARD THE BACK. I PULLED IN BY THE MOTEL OFFICE AND GOT OUT OF THE CAR. STIFFLY. WHAT I NEEDED MOST WAS A HOT MEAL, A HOT SHOWER AND A WARM BED FOR THE NIGHT … IN THAT ORDER.

I pulled my glasses out of the little glove compartment and put them on. A definitive world took shape around me and the headache began to back off right away. I checked in with a little old guy at the front desk, wearing a shirt with a nametag that read: "Howard". He told me there was chicken potpie on the menu, and the cook who ran the kitchen made the best damn chicken potpie I ever ate.

Who was I to argue with that? Pennsylvania, after all, was the "Potpie Capital of the World". Everybody knew that.

I paid for my room, took my key and told "Howard" I'd be right back for some of that potpie. I got into the VW and moved it down the long line of cookie-cutter units until I got to #8, the one at the very end. I parked, locked, checked the lock on the clamshell and went inside to set the carryall somewhere out of the way and turn on the lights. Rain was still threatening and the wind was still blowing.

The room was plain, as far as rooms go. The bed was an old double; a little saggy in the middle, but not enough to tear up my back. I pulled a couple layers of covers down and saw that the 'sheets' were flannel and smelled like lavender detergent. It was warm in there, but not hot. I set the carryall on a worn Morris chair in the corner and turned on the brass lamp that stood on a wood table beside it. The lamp spread a circle of friendly light, making all the harsh lines into an area much more inviting. There was a woolly carpet of some kind on the floor, and the walls were plain dark paneling. But it was clean.

I polished my glasses on my shirttail and looked around a little more. This would certainly do. I promised myself I would go to bed tonight and sleep 'til noon tomorrow. I thought about keeping the room for another night to loaf around and rest up; maybe do some more research on my laptop … didn't know yet. I'd see how tonight went …

The bathroom was small; just a tub along the back wall with a shower head and curtain, a toilet and small wash bowl with a mirror. Two Turkish towels and a washcloth completed the only decoration there was. I turned out the light and went back to the bedroom. I checked my wallet in my back pocket, my car keys in the right front, and shoved the room key into the left.

I turned on the outside light when I left and snapped the one in the main room out. The table lamp would suffice. I secured the door lock and wandered through the drizzle along the sidewalk to the office and the diner located directly behind it. It was starting to rain harder as I closed the door behind me and nodded to the old guy. I walked around the end of the counter and entered the small restaurant.

I found a booth near a window, took off my jacket and slid across. There were a few other diners present, but they were mostly quiet and minding their own business after looking up to see who had just come in. The thing that caught my immediate attention was … no Muzak! No canned music playing in the background and making conversations hard to understand.

A murmur of quiet voices wafted through the air, and cooking smells permeated the place. It wasn't long until a young auburn-haired woman in black slacks and a striped blouse came toward me through bat-wing doors at the back. She was carrying a small menu and a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon. "Good evening," she said. "My name is Hildy." She placed the water and menu in front of me. "What can I get you to drink? We have coffee to die for and killer iced tea. We also have soda pop … almost any kind you want … and Coors Lite and Rolling Rock on tap."

I smiled at the Pennsylvania twang in her voice and decided on the coffee. Good for what ailed me. I'd kind of had enough of the hard stuff for a while. "Hi Hildy. I'm James."

She smiled in return, a friendly sort. She couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty. "I'll be right back to take your order. Tonight's special is chicken potpie, tossed salad, buttered rolls and apple pie for dessert. My Gram makes the best chicken potpie in the world."

I nodded, scanning the menu. When I looked up, she was headed back through the bat-wing doors.

My coffee arrived in a large earthenware mug. Fragrant and steaming and too hot to touch, except for the handle. I surrendered the menu and of course, ordered the potpie dinner with the trimmings. Hildy wrote my order down and asked if that was everything. I nodded and she spun around again; marched back to the kitchen. I watched her shapely behind undulating in the black pants and wished I were twenty years younger …

I added cream to the coffee and surrendered to it, warming my insides wall-to-wall and relaxing bonelessly into the booth.

Hildy was back in less than five minutes with a large deep-dish plate filled to the brim with hot food and thick gravy. Chunks of potatoes and onions and carrots were mixed throughout, and the smell was almost enough to make me salivate. The salad was crisp, the tomatoes bright red, and the house dressing smooth and vinegary. I couldn't wait to sink my fork into everything. There were two dinner rolls with tops like golden retriever's heads, and shiny from hot butter that had been brushed across them.

Hildy fussed around, positioning the plate, dishes and silverware just right. She asked if there was anything else she could get for me, and when I said there wasn't, she backed politely away and retreated to the kitchen again.

I took my time and ate slowly, savoring the kind of hearty food that defined the Keystone State. Although I tried, I couldn't finish it all. When I finally gave up and put my fork down, there was still some potatoes and gravy on the plate. There was one dinner roll left, and the big coffee mug was still a third full … getting cold.

I sighed, placed my napkin on the table, closed my eyes and leaned back in the booth. Took a sip of cold, lemony water.

The amused clearing of her throat told me Hildy was back. I opened my eyes to see her standing beside my table with eyebrows raised, obviously enjoying my lazy, contented expression. I could feel my face getting red, even as I straightened in my seat to discover that she had brought me another mug of that coffee, again steaming hot, and my slice of apple pie. She said nothing, but set herself to clearing my dishes and setting them on the stainless kitchen cart she'd wheeled up to the table.

"Pretty good supper, eh, James?" She was grinning down at me like a savvy kindergarten teacher. She paused from wiping the table and looked at me. "I thought you might like another round of coffee … just to keep your apple pie company."

"My dear," I said, "supper was delicious, but I have no room for dessert … honest …"

She laughed and pushed the cart away. "I'll bring you a 'doggy box' …"

The restaurant was thinning out. When I checked my watch it was almost 9:30 p.m. I'd surrendered my half-full cup to Hildy, and we lingered for a moment, talking small talk until the lights began to dim around us … somebody issuing a broad hint that it was closing time. I took the Styrofoam container with my apple pie and bid her good night. (I also left a generous tip.)

"Gotta go help Gram in the kitchen. Maybe I'll see you again before you leave tomorrow. It's supposed to rain all day."

I slid out of the booth and called out to her retreating back: "It was nice talking to you."

And that was the end of my evening …

The wind was blowing sheets of rain across the sidewalk and the parking lot when I left. Besides Ol' Vanna, there were only three cars and the Peterbilt still parked out front. I ducked my head and trotted down to my room. Unlocking the door took just long enough for the rain to finish drenching me from head to toe and caused me to drip all over the rug inside the room. I turned off the outside light and slid out of my jacket to shake off the rain. I hung the jacket on the doorknob.

I set the doggy box on the table, grabbed clean underwear, shut myself in the bathroom and stripped to the skin. I was shivering. Gooseflesh decorated my arms and legs. I turned on the hot water, adjusted the temperature and stepped beneath the luxurious hot spray.

That night I slept on and off with the accompaniment of the rain on the roof and the wind whistling at the windows. I dreamed of the situation I'd left behind in Florida. They probably all thought: "Good riddance, 'Sneakers'." My tangled imaginings were still searching for ways to appease my guilty conscience.

I thought of House, wondering whether I'd be just as tongue-tied when I tried to tell him how much I'd missed him, and I would never humiliate him again … if I ever found him …

295