Okay then. We are here. Should we just finish today? I won't know until I see how it feels on the page/screen at the end of chapter 25. Bear with me. If I do publish the last chapter, cleverly entitled "26 - an end to it" you'll be the first to know. Buckle that figurative seatbelt and here goes:
23—digging it
He dug it.
With quiet little scoops of a garden
trowel, his shovel standing sentry against the shadow clad wall of the adjacent
building, Will on his knees, all dressed in dark clothing, face smudged
commandolike from where he had feverishly and futilely attempted to wipe away
the sweat oozing from his pores into this cool December night, he spooned it
out.
The dirt.
From under the steps.
In front of the coffee shop.
He breathed deeply and slowly as he
worked in an effort to get his racing blood under control. His heart drummed in the night like an alarm
signal to the world: HERE! IN HERE! THUMP…Thu-THUMP!
At three-thirty in the morning on a
Monday the traffic was sparse on North Santa Cruz Avenue. The occasional
headlights had so far announced the occasional car far enough in advance for
Will to creep behind the little shrub that stood beside the shop’s entrance.
Still, he was completely exposed to the eyes of any but the most disinterested
passerby. He could only hope (and each time he did that shrub crouching thing
he did hope) that any passerby would be disinterested. So far there had been
none, but how long would that luck last?
A car swept slowly away and he
half-crawled back to his deepening pit.
He was on his belly, lying prone, and
stretching now for each trowelful of dirt, piling it up at the far side of his
deepening hole.
His arms and back felt about to break
when, out of the periphery of his vision he caught the flashing red lights. He
froze.
He hugged the earth for all he was
worth and prayed they would go away. If they were not looking this way, they
might, though surely the sound of his heart and his labored breath would call
his game.
To his amazement, the squad car sped
up toward him and continued past, its siren engaging.
But something in him had snapped. His
resolve. Or his courage. Or both. Whatever it was he could not force himself to
go on without it and he picked himself up, spitting dirt, and reached for his
shovel. To run away.
Came the stage whisper from within the gaping hole at his feet, “Will. Help. Me. Help. Me. Will.”
And then he was beside the pit,
shovel flying, and then he was down inside the thing, throwing earth recklessly
out above him, inhaling the damp dirt-filled air, cutting through the roots of
living things in a mad rush to reach something dead. His heart drummed in an
accelerating rhythm, rising to crescendo along with the shushing beats of the
shovel as it sliced through the rich brown earth, rising, rising, building,
shush pu-pump shush pu-pump shush pu-pump until where he had expected another
shushing sound there came a single, shovel arresting thud.
But it wasn’t stone, and it wasn’t
wooden It was not a headstone and it was not a casket. And the odor that
suddenly filled the newly dug pit left little doubt in Will’s mind what this
shovel had struck, and what he was standing upon.
What happened next was only natural.
Anyone in his shoes would have done the same. He pissed, down his leg, into
those shoes.
Flashing red lights once again filled
the night.
Only this time they were bright, so
bright, and a piercing white searchlight sliced through the air between the
street and the newly dug grave.
Curiously, this moment, Will was not
afraid. He had no time to be afraid because he was running at full sprint
directly at the police car.
It was the only thing to do. He could
have stayed in the pit, or he could have crawled slowly out and quietly,
calmly, and rationally answered the officers’ questions. Instead he chose to do
the one thing he knew he was good at.
He ran.
The jig, as they say, was up.
The instant he hit the sidewalk he
heard a shout from inside the patrol car, but though it was loud the words were
unclear, as he was already off, running hard and fast, south on North Santa
Cruz, buying himself the few moments it would take the car to turn about and
follow. Surely they would not shoot at an obviously unarmed man. A gunshot
blasted through the night.
It did not “ring out,” like a gunshot
on television or in a movie. It was loud as a cannon and its loudness ended
abruptly. No ricochet sound followed, either, and Will allowed no opportunity
for a second shot. He pivoted sharply into a brick encased doorway and stopped.
The screeching of rubber on a paved road told him to break for it.
He broke for it.
He ran hard for Bachman Avenue, cut
left there, pounded down to the first parking lot, cut sharp left again, and
pushed himself on into another lot at a full speed.
The siren began to wail as Will
pressed for an opening in the shop buildings lining North Santa Cruz. He spotted
one as the flashing lights and the wailing siren entered the parking lot with
another screech and he threw his body into it.
It was a dead end.
He had misjudged. The alley he had
entered stopped dead at the rear wall of another shop. He realized he had
trapped himself, this time completely.
If he tried a repeat of the earlier
trick, the officer, or officers, would probably blast him into the next
century. His only fragile hope was that the driver of the patrol car would make
the same mistake Will had made and assume that the alleyway went through to the
street beyond.
It came into view, stopped with a
shriek of rubber and for an instant, just for one millisecond, it was over.
Will had sent the signal from his
brain to his arms to raise both hands high.
The car peeled out again bound for
the storefronts around the block.
Will took one deep breath, held it at
the top, and exhaled slowly, pausing after all the air was expelled from his
lungs, before slowly and deeply inhaling again. If there had been two policemen
in that patrol car and if one had been left waiting at the mouth of this alley,
this might be his final breath.
When his lungs were full, he ran.
He ran straight across, over uneven
asphalt, between small shops, through the empty parking lot, to University
Avenue as distant sirens wailed and he pivoted hard left at the sidewalk and powered
up his legs again. He sprinted the distance to the intersection where
University cut across Saratoga, actually by then State Hwy 9. It was as open an
area as God makes and his only hope now was luck.
Now, as one sedan full of
travelers—following their headlights to Saratoga, or to Monte Sereno, or even
to San Francisco via the “scenic route”—whooshed past, Will whispered “vanish”
to himself and without a break in his stride bolted across the intersection and
ran for home.
He leaned hard into his future as he
ran.
He never once looked back.
Suppressing an irrational urge to set
his stopwatch in motion, he concentrated on making time with his body. No
“Long, Slow Distance” here. His body was time. Time was his body.
This was Running.
Will accomplished his apartment door
at full speed. Breathing hard and incredibly fast, he let himself into his
apartment as quietly as he could.
He wanted to laugh out loud; but a
short time later, showered and glowing, as he stood naked before the mirror and
stared at the skeletal figure he had become over the last month, he wept
soundlessly.
Finally, drying his tears and his
body, he slipped into bed beside the sleeping Sarah. For the first time in
nearly a month, he slept peacefully.
He slept for two nights and for two
days.
24—a
little explanation
He was running on the beach, and it
was the Capitola Beach, his favorite, and there was no one on that beach but
him. He wore no shoes, he wore no shirt, he wore no shorts. He was as naked as
the sand itself, as naked as the ocean, as naked as the sky. If the sky could
be said to be wearing the wind, so he wore his smile, all that the moment
called for.
He ran without any effort at all,
feeling the splash of salty smelling ocean water mix with the salt within his
own bare body. Cold wet and warm wet, mingling under the intense summer sun. A
single seagull skirted off the shore he ran along, swooping purposefully toward
the sea’s rolling surface, only to pulls out of its dive at the last instant
and heave itself heavenward.
He raced under the cooling shadow of
the rickety old pier, which yearned out over and into the sea, the sea, mother
ocean. The heat of the sun slapped his skin as he emerged from the shadows. On
he ran, into the littler beach on the pier’s other side. He ran for the giant
boulders strewn over the beach’s outer reach.
There Sarah sunned herself, only as
he drew nearer, he realized she was wearing a heavy robe which covered her lithe
body from neck to ankle. She slept soundly as he approached, now walking, now
quietly panting only slightly from his run. She was. Beautiful.
The sun shone.
The pounding, the singing, the
whispering ocean as he stood over Sarah. She stirred slightly, and she opened
the cumbersome robe slowly, peeled it open, tantalizingly, and her smooth, her
silky, her cool, her taut body was offered ever so gently to him, and he
approached as that seagull called out from somewhere in the distance, and
called out again, this time more loosely, and again, and it was calling his
name, gently, lovingly, singing his name, Will, Will, honey, Willum…
“Love. Wake up baby, oh, sweetie, I
hate to wake you, but you really have to eat. Take your time, now, there is no
hurry.”
He opened his eyes very, very
tentatively. He knew it was Sarah who sat over him, and he knew that he had been
dreaming. Ah, but such a dream. It dawned upon him in stages that suggested the
opening of that robe. It had been a long, long time, a long time indeed, since
he had dreamed a dream of his own, that belonged only to him.
Strange that he had not been more
concerned with that, over the past month or two. He had been so confused. So
incomplete. So
He careened into full consciousness.
“Sarah, Sarah, what time is it, Jesus, I must have overslept.”
“It’s okay, Will, it’s all right, now
just lay back here, like the good boy you are. I’ve called your work and explained,” she spoke as a teacher to a child, the palms of her
hand on his shoulders gently but firmly pushing him back into the softness of
the pillow. “Besides,” she added, “our little Willy is a hero.” That made Will
flinch, but Sarah took no notice, “You couldn’t lose a job in this town if you
streaked a town council meeting.”
She seemed taken by that image. She
broke into here little tinkling laughter.
Will just looked at her, his heart
full and his mind thoroughly befuddled.
When she had collected herself and
her little fit of laughter had subsided, Sarah continued, “Now comes the fun
part. I think I have this whole story under control, although you will have to
fill me in on a few details, like how it all fell into place for you. Will,”
she gave him a serious expression, lightly brushing a fallen strand of black
hair from his brow, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wouldn’t listen to you. I guess,”
she paused, “I guess it all just didn’t make any sense to me. Even now that it
does make sense, it still spooks me a little. No. Not a little. It spooks me a
lot.”
Will started to speak, but Sarah
placed a soft warm hand over his lips.
“You’re not allowed to speak for a
few minutes,” she again took control, only to yield it again, “only maybe to
say you forgive me. Her eyes twinkled. Tears? Or mischief?
Will cupped her little hand in his
own and kissed it gently. When she took it back he spoke, “Sarah, I love you. I
need you, and,” he lowered his voice to a Soto whisper, “I think I must have
you.” He reached for her.
But she had already rolled back out
of reach and, from the doorway, said coyly, “Uh-uh, big boy, not until I’ve
gotten some answers to some very important questions. Wait one minute.”
From the dungeon’s living room, she
called, “Notice anything different?” She returned, clutching a small bundle of
newspapers to her breast. She pointed at the ceiling, “You’ve slept for two
solid days. You have any guesses why that’s been possible?”
“My god, she’s right,”Will thought. No Thunderthighs, no Leadfoot, no One Ton Centipede. He looked
confused again, and he realized he was getting very adept at looking confused.
“You busted him, you sly Hardy boy,
you popped him into the pokey.”
Noting Will’s bewilderment, Sarah
continued, “Okay, hon, I’ll go slow. Here’s the straight skimmy.” She plopped
down beside him on the bed. Squeaks prevailed. “The body you found? You know,
the one you dug up downtown in front of the El Gato? Well that was Merle
Senior, the lately deceased father of Merle, you got it? Junior.” Once again,
she pointed to the ceiling.
“It seems that the older Merle passed
away in his sleep this past October. That is, if we can believe his son. And at
this point we’re not so sure we can believe any smalltime but heavyweight
restauranteur who would bury hid dear beloved namesake under the front steps of
his business establishment and then carry on the pretense that all was business
as usual, all the while collecting and cashing his dad’s pension and social
security checks in order to feed his already well overfed face in the style to
which it had grown, and I do mean grown, accustomed.”
“Oops,” she said, covering her smile
with her hand, “I think I’ve gone too fast. That’s pretty much the whole story.
Damn.” She looked disappointed. “And I was planning to tell it so dramatically.
Oh, well. Oh, but I could add that the police know it was you who did the dirty
work, excuse me, and that it’s all right that you did it, I mean what happened
was they went to Merle Junior before coming here and Merle Junior well he just
cracked like a little porcelain Buddha right then and there, confessed to the
whole grisly thing, upon which confession he was led off to the hoosegow in
handcuffs. God, I’m surprised that you slept through the whole thing, all the
hollering and weeping and such going on right up over our heads am I going too
fast?”
She was, but before Will could
respond yea or nay she continued, “Anyway, at this point you were still in the
clear, until the police put a call from your Miss Riley at the library together
with a report of a strange conversation you and some funeral director had and
came up with little Willy Gardner’s name.” Will flinched again, but Sarah
didn’t notice, “boy graverobber. They brought your trowel and shovel here and I
identified them, but only after they told me they wanted to thank you and to
talk to you about how you knew where to look and stuff. I was able to tell them
enough to confuse the hell out of them and to convince them that you needed
your rest to build back your strength. But I promised that you would call them
as soon as you were yourself again.” She reached out and touched his silent
face. Her hand felt so warm and soft upon it, his stubbly face. She heaved a
heavy sigh. “So. How about it, my love? Are you? Yourself I mean?”
In answer he pulled her to him and
kissed her full welcoming lips. The next several hours were dedicated to
determining, as thoroughly as possible, the answer to Sarah’s question.
The answer was an unequivocal yes.
25—a
funeral
It was a dark, cool, rainy, Northern
California Sunday afternoon, and there were not many mourners present to
witness old Merle Sikes’ coffin lowered into its proper resting place. January
had finally turned into Winter, such as this part of the country would see, and
it appeared that life’s own Winter had already claimed most of the old man’s
friends, had he any.
A handful of old people stood bent
under the green and gray stiped canopy that had been set up against the winter
rain. Time weighed heavily upon the little assembly. Time had bent them all, in
one way or other, though none, as yet, were broken. Only Merle. Only Merle.
They attended to the proceedings with
silent respect. There was a heavy air of seriousness about it, some dimension
of meaning beyond that of other funerals. No one spoke. All shared the moment.
Will felt detached from the occasion
and at the same time deeply responsible for it. He and Sarah stood a little
away from the rest of the party, sharing the shelter of a big black umbrella. Somehow,
it did not feel right to be a part of the small circle of elders who stood
beneath the canopy. The echoes of the minister’s final words hung for a moment
in the air. Then, as if he had never spoken, he was gone. And then, as the
cemetery workers leaned into their work of filling the grave, the small group
of mourners filtered out into the grayness of the winter day. It was over.
As he and Sarah turned to leave
together, a great sense of relief washed over Will. He silently thanked God
that there had been no press to sully the event’s momentous weight.
Will had already begun to gain back
some of his own weight. His face looked a little fuller, and the dark circles
that had become so familiar to him had evaporated.
It was. Over.
Except, that is, for the old
gentleman who now made his way up to the young couple.
His face was lined like soft leather,
creased by decades of worry, perhaps of pain, but also of laughter. There
remained but the slightest wisps of white hair scattered about his bare head.
He also carried an umbrella, open to ward off the rain, and he smiled a kindly
greeting, speaking gently, “Hello. You, of course, are Will Gardner, and you,
young lady, are...Mrs. Gardner?”
Sarah blushed, unseen in the grayness
that so enveloped them. She and Will had only the previous day brought the
subject up.
“No, sir,” Will interjected, “this is
my dear lady, Sarah Moore, and you, sir, are?”
“George Milhous is my name, son.” He
peered with almost unsettling sincerity deep into the younger man’s eyes, as if
searching for something he might have lost. “Durned if I wouldn’t like a cup of
coffee and a word with you, if you would deem to spend a few minutes with an
old man. My sister doesn’t keep coffee in the house, says it’s bad for us, but
I do like a cup now and then. Are you possessed of a vehicle, son?” He smiled
again, and where his previous smile had been laced with gravity, this one held
a little mischief, along with a tinge of urgency.
Will could not refuse. Aside from the
genuine feeling that a conversation with this elderly fellow might prove
fascinating in itself, there were still some questions in Will’s own mind that
perhaps the old man could help answer.
“Yes, that old white Mercedes on the
end,” he gestured to the parking lot. You are more than welcome to join us for
a coffee, Mr. Milhaus. In fact,” he lied, “we were just going to stop for some
on our way home.” He glanced at Sarah, who only smiled politely, obviously of
like mind.
“Make it George, my boy. Just let me
make my excuses to Sally, there. You can drop me home after our chat, can you
not. I understand that is a lot to ask, but I live just off Bachman Avenue, up
the hill, don’t you know, and I would much appreciate the respite from the old
girl, I love her deeply but,” his eyes twinkled, “well, yes. Just one moment,
here.” He talked a little more spryly than before as he moved off to speak with
sister Sally, who stood at the base of the little hill in the midst of a small
group of old folks who appeared to have been waiting for George.
Sarah gently squeezed Will’s hand. They made their way, arm in arm, to the car.
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