CUTTER'S GROVE Page 2

  Notwithstanding the warmth from the morning sun, I shiver, then force myself to shake off the heebie-jeebies that ripple through my chest and settle begrudgingly somewhere in my gut. I feel foolish that my ghostly imaginings during yesterday’s storm still have the power to affect me so profoundly, especially now in the brilliant light of day, but … well … I don’t know, it all seemed so real and ... somehow still does.

  But I can’t let all this dominate my thoughts. I have other things to concern myself with. Survival, of course, being chief among the aforementioned things. The road ahead leads off into some hills I estimate are about two miles away. After some reflection, I decide they’re my best bet. Behind me the road stretches off to the junction of earth and sky and God only knows how far the main highway is beyond the distance I can see. Again I’m amazed at how I’ve managed to drift so far off course. If I had a scrap of sense I’d have pulled over and waited out that damn storm instead of floundering around like an idiot, so disoriented I couldn’t even keep my vehicle pointed in a straight line on a major highway. By now I’d have gotten a ride with an obliging motorist who would have delivered me to a service station and I’d be well on my way again. But there’s little to be gained by morbid reflection of my past mistakes.

  With a sigh and a sad shake of my head I grab my backpack from behind the rear seat. I stuff in my blanket, the Snickers bar, and my water bottle, then head off in the direction of the hills which are already shimmering, mirage-like, in the morning heat.

  Two hours and what feels like six hundred miles later, the hills are no closer than when I started. Apparently, judging distance isn’t as easy as it would seem. I look back toward the Jeep, now little more than a featureless dot on the horizon. I imagine it sitting there with a forlorn expression, mocking my stupidity for having left the safety and comfort it offered.

  I plod on.

  By noon I’m in full-scale starvation mode. The Snickers bar is long gone and I don’t even have a distant memory of my last sip of water. It’s only mid April but the heat from the desert sun is intense; I figure it’s at least ninety-five degrees. If I was fortunate enough to possess an egg, I could fry it on the road’s surface, no problem. Right about now, though, I’d happily devour the egg raw.

  By the time I get to the hills it’s late in the afternoon. I want desperately to get out of the sun but there’s nothing in sight that will provide even a hint of shade. I decide to rest for a while anyway. I ease my bone-weary body to the ground and sit cross-legged by the side of the road. Although technically still a paved surface, this stretch of macadam has not benefited from the presence of a pothole repair crew any time in the recent past. Some of the depressions are deep enough to entrap small animals. It’s clear that I made a serious error in opting for the hills instead of retracing my route from the Jeep. I’m convinced at this point that the road I’m on leads nowhere, that I’ll give up the ghost - you’ll pardon the expression - before I see another morning.

  I indulge in an hour of self-pity, then, with an incredible display of willpower, haul myself to a standing position. I figure I’ll never make it back to the Jeep so I might as well keep heading through the hills. Who knows? Maybe a miracle awaits me on the other side.

  But before long it is evident there will be no miracles for me today. As I crest the hill I’ve been climbing and look into the distance I see only more wasteland awaiting me.

  When night begins to fall the drop in temperature is almost impossible to believe. It’s like, in the blink of an eye, I’ve gone from El Azizia, Libya, to a polar icecap. (El Azizia, you might be interested to know, is generally recognized as the hottest place on earth). My feet feel the cold worst of all. I’m wearing loafers and every step I take is painful. I can only hope another storm doesn’t come up; the wind chill would be lethal.

  With darkness and the debilitating cold I lose all passion for continuing my march. I leave the road and huddle against a small boulder. There’s still a modicum of heat in it from the day’s sun and it provides at least a little comfort.

  There’s a partial moon and it illuminates the landscape enough so that I marvel at the desert’s stark beauty in this light. The vision of ghost girl still lingers abrasively in my mind, however, and I’d be lying to myself if I pretended I wasn’t a little worried about a return visit now that nightfall is once again at hand.

  But soon the day’s exhausting trek catches up with me. My eyes get heavy-lidded. I wrap my blanket around me and burrow against my boulder, trying not to think about what might be lurking beneath it. Don’t snakes like to make their homes under rocks? I have a morbid fear of snakes. Even that, however, is not deep-seated enough to keep my mind alert. Within minutes my head is resting on my knees and I’m asleep.

  This time I’m startled awake by something brushing against my face.

  I jump to my feet, nearly losing my balance in my haste.

  I hustle away from the boulder, flailing at my face, thinking a spider is crawling on me or maybe the snake idea wasn’t so crazy. But whatever brushed against me, I quickly realize, was not like either of those things. It was more like ... clothing maybe.

  But, hey, obviously there are no people, clothed or otherwise, anywhere nearby. Then what was it that touched me?

  This is starting to piss me off.

  Ghostly visions of vanishing children, bumps in the night, soft nudges from invisible people. If I wasn’t so scared I could get really pissed.

  Then, at first so faint I’m not even sure it’s real, I hear the implausible sound of a vehicle approaching from the direction of the Jeep. As I listen, I realize it sounds like an older model - it has the rumble of a muscle car from the fifties. I run out on the road and I see the illumination of it’s headlights in the night sky before I can actually see the vehicle itself, cresting a hill.

  When it finally comes into view I see it’s an old pickup - not exactly Beverly Hillbillies vintage, but not that far off either. It’s purring along at a pace just barely over a good walking speed. I start waving my arms and jumping up and down like a lunatic, yelling for help. Like whoever’s driving this thing could actually miss me.

  A moment later the pickup rolls to a stop beside me. A black guy, somewhere in his sixties, wearing a Los Angeles Dodgers ball cap turned backwards, hangs his head out the window and smiles, his teeth pearly white in the moon’s glow. He’s got a kind face, big curious eyes, and what appears to be a completely bald head, judging from the lack of fringe under the cap’s edges. “Hi there, young fella,” he says. Like we’re lodge brothers and he just ran across me at Wal-Mart. His voice is gravelly but kind of high-pitched and he speaks with a slow, easy drawl, like there is nothing in the world that could upset him or cause him to be unduly rushed.

  “Man, am I glad to see you,” I gush. “I got off track in the storm last night and ran out of gas. I was beginning to think I’d never see mankind again.”

  “Uh huh,” he mumbles matter-of-factly. “Well then, I reckon that’d be your Jeep I passed back a ways. Hop on in, I’ll take ya into town.”

  Right now I’d accept a ride if Jeffrey Dahmer was at the wheel. “Much obliged,” I say.

  When I get settled in the cab next to him he holds out his hand. It’s the size of a catcher’s mitt. “Sonny Katlin,” he says.

  “Lucas Tunney.” I shake his hand, feeling not unlike an eleven-year-old girl shaking hands with Muhammad Ali. On closer inspection Sonny is a dead ringer for that old character actor whose name I can never remember - the one who played in ‘The Shining’ with Jack Nicholson years ago. Scatman, that’s it. Scatman Crothers.

  “Tunney,” he says, smiling. “See now, names are kinda comical. Tunney is a fine name and yet it wouldn’t work for me at all. Imagine Sonny Tunney.” He chuckles.

  “Yeah, comical,” I reply, chuckling along with him. I don’t really find it all that funny but who cares? I’m so thankful to have been rescued from a night of certain death I’m happy to go along with anything
he says.

  Sonny gets the pickup into gear and eventually we’re rolling along at fifteen miles an hour, what appears to be his customary breakneck speed. “Where y’all from, Lucas?” he asks.

  “Seattle,” I tell him.

  “On holiday, are ya?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Well, it’s a lucky thing for you I come along. You’d a been a mite cold before the night was done, I reckon.”

  “That’s the truth,” I say. “What brought you out here tonight anyway, Sonny?”

  “Been over in Lake Havasu for a couple days, visitin’ my sister. This here’s a little shortcut home.”

  “And where’s home?” I ask.

  “Cutter’s Grove,” he says. “Just up the road here a spell,” And then, with a mixture of pride and humility, he adds, “Got me a little service station there.”

  Halleluiah, Lord. Gasoline. “Looks like I picked me the right ride, Sonny.”

  Sonny looks over at me and smiles broadly. “That ya did, son. That ya did.”

  What with the jostling of the pickup, the welcome heat pouring out of it’s vents, and much interrupted sleep of late, I soon start to nod off.

  Some time later, when I sense the pickup coming to a stop, I awake to find we’ve arrived at Cutter’s Grove.

  3

  “Listen, Lucas,” Sonny says, “it’s pretty late. Why don’t ya sack out on my sofa for the rest a the night? We’ll get ya on yer way tomorrow.”

  Despite an hour or so of sleep in the pickup I feel like I’ve gone three rounds with Lennox Lewis. “Sounds good,” I mumble sleepily.

  Sonny steers me into his home. It’s furnished in early Salvation Army but it couldn’t look better to me if it was the honeymoon suite at the New York Hilton. Sonny provides blankets and a pillow, points out the location of the bathroom, and leaves me alone. As I settle into the contours of Sonny’s couch I’m marveling at the kindness of this complete stranger. I’m thinking if I had come across him stranded on the side of the road in Seattle, what I’d have done. Picking him up, giving him a ride to my home, and putting him up for the night would not even have been a consideration. Why is that? I’m wondering as I drift off.

  When morning arrives I find myself in an empty house. There’s a note from Sonny on the coffee table beside the couch telling me to help myself to whatever I can find for breakfast. He’s at the garage.

  After a quick bowl of Corn Flakes I leave the house, which is set well back from the garage on a large corner property, in search of my host.

  The service station consists of two gas pumps and a small office attached to a two bay shop. Entering the office, I notice a thick layer of greasy dust attached to everything. I find Sonny on his back under an old Ford station wagon in the shop, grunting and cursing.

  “Morning, Sonny,” I call out.

  Sonny slides out from under the Ford on a wheeled gurney, clutching an oversized wrench in his meaty fist. “Hey, Lucas. How’s my man?”

  Despite numerous lumps and bumps in Sonny’s couch, I’ve had ten hours of restful and much needed sleep and I feel pretty damn good. “Top notch,” I respond.

  “Excellent. As for me,” Sonny says, “I’ve had about all the aggravation I can take from this old beater for one mornin’.”

  Sonny straightens himself to an upright position with some obvious difficulty.

  “What seems to be the problem with her?” I ask. My dad was a grease monkey all his life and I spent many hours in my youth helping him work on cars. Although I’m far from a qualified mechanic, I’ve never had much difficulty figuring out what makes most engines, and machinery in general, tick. The new generation of computerized automotive engines, well, that’s a little tougher. But the older models don’t generally cause me too much grief.

  “I dunno,” Sonny grumbles. “I’ve tried everything I can think of to get her runnin’. I’m about ready to give up on the damn thing.” He looks at me with sudden interest. “Why? You ain’t a mechanic, are ya?”

  “No,” I confess, “but I don’t mind taking a look at it for you.” I explain about my old man and how I had managed to pick up a few things from him.

  Sonny looks at me skeptically. “Help yourself,” he says. “There’s some overalls over there that should fit ya.”

  I climb into a pair of overalls that are stiff from years of accumulated oil, grease, and dirt. As I’m sliding under the Ford on Sonny’s gurney he says, “Lunch is on me if you can get 'er goin’.”

  I spend a few minutes looking the Ford over from underneath and then attack it from up top. Sonny grunts and heads for his office.

  Two hours later the Ford roars to life. Sonny hobbles into the shop with a look of astonishment on his leathery old face.

  “I’ll be damned,” he says. “How the hell did you do that?”

  I shrug nonchalantly. “Nothing to it really,” I say.

  “Well, I’d beg to differ,” Sonny replies as he sets his Dodgers cap backwards on his shiny dome. “I’m beginnin’ to think yer a very talented young fella.”

  “Well, I’m not just another pretty face,” I reply.

  “God knows that’s true,” Sonny replies, effectively obliterating any feelings of smugness I might have harbored. “Let’s grab some lunch,” he says. “Then we’ll load up some jerry cans with gas and get ya back to yer Jeep.”

  Music to my ears.

  Cutter’s Grove is like a page out of the old west. The main Street is dominated by a general store and a small hotel. There’s a diner, a clothing shop (of the work variety), a barber shop, a used furniture store, and some odds and sods. A church sits off a bit from the other buildings and with the exception of this one building the entire town looks like it’s been sandblasted and is awaiting a good coat of paint.

  Sonny’s garage is the first building coming into town. It makes the others look positively radiant by comparison.

  We leave the garage and walk up Main Street to the diner. It’s about what you’d expect: wood floor, half a dozen vinyl-covered booths, and a row of stools along a lunch counter. We’re a little early for the lunch rush I guess; there’s nobody else in the place.

  Sonny leads the way to a booth and we slide in opposite one another. “The food here ain’t bad,” he tells me.

  Just then I hear the sound of hard-heeled boots coming toward us. I look to my left to see a woman wearing tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a bone-colored silk blouse approaching our table. She’s carrying a pot of coffee. I figure she’s around thirty but she could be a year or two on either side - it’s hard to tell. She’s tall and well built, with full, shapely breasts that strain against the confines of the blouse. Her hair is long and a light shade of brown and she’s wearing it up at the back with long strands left loose at the sides to frame her face. The only war paint she’s wearing is a little eye shadow and some lip-gloss. On closer inspection I see that there’s no denying she’s an incredibly well-put-together lady.

  “Hi, Sonny,” she says. There’s a hint of an accent. Could be she’s from the south. “How ya doing?”

  “Fine and dandy, Beth,” Sonny replies. “This here is Lucas Tunney. Beth Wunderlich.”

  When Beth turns her face to me I'm treated to the sight of the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. They're a dazzling cobalt color, like a summer sky. “Hi,” she says. “Nice to see a new face around here.”

  I smile and nod my hello, mesmerized by the sultry, vixen-like body at odds with her sweet, child-like face.

  “Where ya from?” she asks.

  I’m apparently so captivated by this woman’s looks I’m rendered momentarily speechless.

  Sonny answers for me. “Lucas is from Seattle. Bet you’re never gonna guess what he did this mornin’.”

  “That’s a pretty safe bet, Sonny,” she says. She’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure out whether I’m just shy or too stupid to talk for myself.

  “He got that damn Ford a yours runnin’, that’s what,” Sonny c
hortles.

  Beth’s face takes on a new look - that of sincere wonder. “Well, I’ll be,” she says. “I was sure the next stop for that old bucket of rust was the bone yard. You’re a miracle worker, Lucas.”

  “It was no big deal,” I say.

  She looks impressed all to hell that I can actually speak. “Just the same, lunch is on me. How about a couple steaks?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Sonny says, smiling happily. “That okay with you, Lucas?”

  “Sure,” I mumble.

  Beth smiles, fills our coffee cups without asking, and saunters off.

  I watch the awe-inspiring sight of her backside as she walks away. Sonny leans over and whispers, “Not bad, huh?”

  “You’re a master of understatement, Sonny. What’s her story anyway?”

  “Dunno, really. She showed up here a couple years ago. Herb - he owns this place - had a sign in the window advertisin’ for a waitress at the time. Beth walks in one day around lunchtime and takes the sign up to the counter. She says to Herb: You the owner? Herb says yeah. Beth says I guess you just found yourself a new waitress. Herb looks ’er over. Yeah, he says, I reckon I have. One of the boys at the counter smirks and says: Hey, Herb, ain’t ya gonna ask ’er for some references. Herb looks at her again. Are you kiddin’? he says. Best damn move Herb ever made, too. Pretty well took all the business away from the hotel when Beth started here.”

  That I can believe. “I guess every able-bodied male within a hundred miles is knocking on her door, huh?”

  “Oh, you’re right there,” Sonny says, “they’ve all given it a shot. But, so far as I know, she’s turned every one of ’em down. Beth is a different kind a woman. Real independent, if ya know what I mean. Just wish I was a few decades younger. I’d sure be givin’ her a run for the money.”

  I can’t help but smile at the image of Sonny, all dressed up in his finery, courting the likes of Beth. He looks like he’d be hard pressed to outrun Andy Rooney.