by Judy Fischer
Since he had never been with a woman and life on the street had never taught him the intricacies of dating or being in love, I was expecting something he was incapable of giving. Maybe, slowly, with time, he would learn. He was liberated now and found a new start on life.
It was a rather warm night, the stars shone brightly in the southern sky and to me, it was so unusual. Compared to the New Year’s Eves of my past life, this was different.
We sat with our glasses of champagne, looking at each other, anticipating the stroke of midnight, which would then, ultimately, launch the year 1980. The year I was going to turn 18.
Rolling
We spent the day after the New Year’s Eve celebrations tying up loose ends. Larry had to prepare the tractor-trailer for travel, which involved cleaning out the cabin and the sleeper, of which the latter was in worse condition, having had two men living, eating and sleeping out of it for days on end. He had to check all of the 18 tires for pressure and had to start the engine to lubricate all the engine components.
René went to Hampton with Fred to get haircuts. Both needed one badly. They were also scheduled for a brief meeting with Father Williams; René wanted to say goodbye.
I stayed to spend some more time with Irma who had started to show signs of separation pains.
“You have been such a pleasure to have, Missy, I don’t know what will become of us, now.”
“Irma, I will always be only a phone call away and you can come and join us at any time. I will probably appreciate some company when Larry and René will be away on a haul.”
“You are right but the minute the three of you get into that truck, my life will become lonely again. Fred is good company but with age, he has become less and less sociable. Sometimes, he just sits all day and reads or goes off alone for hours on the beach. I have often thought that one day he will not return, like Michael. I worry so much now, especially after that terrible day. I will miss you, Missy.” She then held me in her arms, unable to let go.
I returned her affection and kissed her face with tenderness and a true love which had evolved since we met. Even though our time together was short lived, it was the quality of those two months that gave me a reason for having such deep affections for them.
A new day, a new month and a new year made me feel extra nostalgic. As I gathered our belongings and tidied up the cottage, I reflected on the past but thought more about the future. I looked around the guest house that gave René and me the hospice we desperately needed at the time of our escape from Montreal. It was the welcoming arms waiting for us following our flight from the terrible reality of René’s life back home.
I felt a sudden loss for what I left behind. I missed my mother and my father who was already old when I left. I wondered how my mother was handling the loss of a child she had loved so much. However, I knew too that my chosen responsibilities toward someone who needed me was far beyond any selfish desires I may have to continue my previous carefree existence.
On the verge of another road trip and another leap into the unknown reminded me of what Oliver once told me. There will come a time, Missy, when you will have to set René free. You will have to give him the freedom to stay with you or to walk away. It is not as easy as it may sound today, when the time comes, it might be the hardest thing you will ever have to do.
By the time the sun set in the west and the tide had come in with a fierceness that only happens in January, Larry, René and I climbed into our respective places in the cabin of the beautiful red 18-wheeler truck and made our quick getaway before the effects of separation would not allow us to leave. I looked out the window to see the faces of the two precious people whom I now loved with passion. As Larry pulled us out of the driveway, I could see the tears in Irma’s eyes and the sorrowful look on Fred’s face. The moon was the only light shining but I could still see each and every teardrop and the mournful frown.
The road south, from Virginia to Florida, was going to take us through the two Carolinas, the peanut State of Georgia and then ultimately arriving into the sunshine State of Florida. The first night, I slept in the sleeper, undisturbed by the sounds of the engine or the incessant jokes Larry had in his wealth of data tucked away somewhere in his memory bank. He had accumulated many over the 50 years of his life. Besides, those senseless tales made my sleep come quicker and stay deeper. The 18 wheels of the truck generated such a comforting hum from rolling on the cement-covered flawless roads that it easily replaced any lullabies or sleep aids. I had never realized how comfy those truck sleepers were.
I woke up to the warm southern air of North Carolina’s fresh morning hours and René tugging at my blanket draped over me for the night.
“Breakfast is served, beautiful. Come, let me treat you to some bacon and eggs.”
I yawned and jumped, not realizing for a second where I was. I had dreamt of the seaside estate I loved so much, and I thought for sure I was waking up for my routine run on the beach before the sun rose in the sky.
“Oh, René, where are we?”
“We have just passed Raleigh and we thought having something to eat would be a good idea. Larry and I have finished everything Irma packed. Sorry,” he smiled his boyish smile, melting my heart.
René and I took turns in the sleeper throughout the trip, even during daytime. Larry had started giving René driving lessons on their previous trips and he was a natural. On those stretches of highway toward Florida those Larry knew were seldom patrolled by the police, he allowed René to take the wheel and to give himself some napping time.
When I was in the sleeper, I started to write again. Irma lent me her typewriter. She told me she had no more use for it, but I didn’t want to take advantage of her kindness and generosity. Therefore, I promised her that as soon as I had more money, I would send her a cheque to buy herself a new one.
Typing while riding the roads gave me a different motivation for composing. Sitting so high above the drifting miles being swept away under me, the inspirations were again taking over my world. The window separating the cabin from me was always kept closed. The only light guiding my hands came from the small opening behind my head. The compartment was not designed to facilitate a writer to write an epic novel, it was only meant for a tired truck driver to erase the fatigue of the endless roads he travelled.
I did make good use of the time while sitting there, alone with my own thoughts, oblivious to the changes in the landscape and foliage we passed from state to state. Whenever we stopped, I was intrigued again by nature’s endless surprises.
By the second day, we arrived near Jacksonville, Florida, where the groves of orange trees lined the roads. The winter had been gentle that year on the thousands upon thousands of young trees that were going to provide juice to millions of people around the world. While sitting with Larry in the cabin, as René slept, I received a formal education about the history, agriculture and commerce of the State of Florida. I enjoyed his transfer of information; however, his final remarks caught me unprepared.
“Missy, have you and René done the nasty?”
I looked at him with a puzzled look on my face, I had never heard the terminology before.
“You know, slept together?”
“Larry, I’m not comfortable talking about it,” I said.
“Missy, we are like family, I am old enough to be your dad. Besides, I’m concerned. I don’t mean anything negative or filthy. You know, René and I have talked a lot while we were travelling, and I think he wants to have those kinds of relations with you. However, he doesn’t know if you feel the same way.”
“We have talked about this since then and we are working out our issues.”
“He is a great guy, you know.”
“I do know. I’ve been with him for a long time. I love him very much, he knows that. Did he tell you everything?”
“You mean about his family? Yes, he did.”
“He hardly ever talks about them and I don’t think it’s healthy. I hope he came clea
n with Oliver. René needs a lot of help, Larry. I hope that you too can give him guidance. Don’t just fill his head with silly jokes, give him honest ways to cope with life and love. He didn’t get too much of that on the streets from the pimps or the street garbage he was imperilled by for two years.”
“You are very wise for someone so young, Missy,” he said in an earnest tone while he glanced toward me. “I will try my best, I will try to be a role model, but my years of experience with women hasn’t been without making mistakes.”
“We all make mistakes, Larry, it is the way life is. I want to tell you that I will eventually give René an ultimatum. He will have to choose a life with me on my terms or he will have to walk away from me.”
“What exactly do you mean by that, Missy?”
“Larry, I must know where my life is going. I took a big leap of faith getting him away from trouble and I did it for him. However, I need some things from life too. Selfish, I am not, but a fool I am not either. I think René might look upon me as his saviour and maybe he feels he owes me something. I know he loves me, but how is the question. No matter how hard we tried, romance has not blossomed between us. When he touches me, kisses me, holds me, I tremble and crave for his love. I don’t know if he gets those same kinds of cravings when I touch him.”
“I see. You’ve been very open, Missy. I didn’t, realize the severity of your dilemma.”
We drove in silence and it seemed like forever until René immerged from the sleeper, very much awake.
“I do love you, Missy,” he whispered in my ear.
I knew right away he had overheard some, most or all the conversation between Larry and me. I noticed some tearstains on his face and he wiped them away before I left him in the care of Larry. I went back to the solitude of my fortress behind them, to continue writing, for it was the writing that managed to console and soothe my aching heart.
Hollywood, Florida
Larry’s house in Hollywood, Florida, was a quaint hacienda; a Mexican-styled house with tiny white-washed pebbles scattered in the front yard. There were bushes of red oleander decorating the perimeter and under the blazing glow of the midday sun and the cloud-free blue skies, the stucco on the facade radiated its bleached white glamour. As we pulled into the driveway, a well-tanned middle-aged woman came to greet us from the house next door.
She was introduced to us and Larry made it clear, Maria, his next-door neighbour, was also the one who looked after his house in his absence. He insisted we were to call on her help if ever we needed it. She had a very welcoming smile and in her broken English, she excused herself.
Before we arrived at the house, Larry had driven the tractor to a parking lot about a mile away because the residential neighbourhood where he lived did not accommodate or appreciate trucks of that size anywhere in its vicinity. He had a small VW Beetle waiting for us close by and after we transferred our suitcases, we drove promptly to his home. The temperature had skyrocketed to almost 90 degrees F and a quick drive to the house soon put us into the air-conditioned setting vital to our comfort. The weather had always been ideal in Virginia, except for a few windy and cool evenings during a storm or two daring to cross our way. Larry had told me during his lecture on the State of Florida that the southern areas of the state had an extremely hot climate. The heat got interrupted only by rain or the occasional hurricane; however, January was not a month in which there was any threat from either. There were three small-sized bedrooms in the house, a full kitchen and two marble-tiled bathrooms with shower stalls. There was, in the backyard, an enclosed kidney-shaped pool, a tiled deck with a gas BBQ and white lawn chairs placed strategically around the whole area. Behind the enclosure, the grass lawn, ended and a moor appeared. There, a small-sized yacht was anchored. The canal, I was told later, led to a series of waterways for which southern Florida was well-known.
Again, as in Virginia, René and I looked at each other in disbelief.
“Pinch me again, I must still be dreaming,” I said again as we burst into a giddy laughter.
“Oh, I see you are both pleasantly surprised. Being a truck driver does have many advantages. I may not be home often to enjoy it, but it’s a great showpiece, no?” he beamed with pride.
“Missy, I will give you your own room where you can write in peace and quiet while René is snoring away in the other one. You do, however, have to share a bathroom. Everything else is common, please make yourselves at home. I am not much of a cook, so, Missy, feel free to cook whatever you want. There is plenty of food, Maria has done the grocery shopping for us.”
I was very impressed with Larry’s kindness, it showed that Irma and her family members were properly schooled in the art of southern hospitality. To show him my appreciation for having opened up his home to us, I decided to treat him to a home-cooked meal. I had learned many new recipes from Irma and I was happy to impress my new host with a decent meal.
While I was busy in the kitchen, René and Larry were having some beer poolside and did not hear the mailman ringing the bell impatiently at the front door. I finally ran to intercept.
“I have a registered letter for a Melissa Drake.”
“That’s me,” I responded with surprise. I signed the necessary papers and then returned to the kitchen quickly to, prevent the food from burning in the pot. I left the letter on the table, returning my attention to the meal I was trying to complete.
When Larry came back with the empty bottles, he noticed the letter on the table and picked it up.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It just arrived. I haven’t had a chance to look at it.”
“Open it, Missy, it looks important.”
I had a feeling it was a letter from the publisher, who else knew I was there? I opened the envelope with some hesitation. My heart was beating overtime from the anticipation of what I would find inside.
I peeled away the first few pages, not reading the letter. Attached to the words was a cheque for $20,000. I stood and held it in my hand, too stunned to move.
“So, what on earth is it?” Larry asked as René joined us in the kitchen.
The three of us stood in silence as I held up the cheque for them to see. Then I read the letter out loud for them to hear.
Published
"Dear Miss Drake,
We are pleased to offer you an advance of $20,000 to show good faith in accepting your manuscript Michael. We would like to proceed with the publishing of your book and any royalties coming from the its sales as per the contract, will be then forwarded to, you. However, we ask you to read and sign the enclosed contract first and then return it to us. Please cash the check, if you accept our offer. For further information regarding this agreement, please contact me, Russell Grant at 555-5656 in Hollywood, Florida.
Yours sincerely
R. Grant"
It took us a while to fully accept the authenticity of the letter. I read it several times to clarify each and every word Mr. Grant had written.
“Oh, my goodness,” I finally gave out a yell.
“Congratulations, Missy,” Larry pitched in.
René picked me up and twirled me around the room, obviously pleased with the outcome of my efforts as a new writer. Once my feet finally touched the floor, I ran to the phone, eyeing Larry for permission.
“Go ahead, call her,” he said, knowing exactly who I was about to call.
“Hello, Irma? It’s Missy. They bought my book, Irma. Isn’t that amazing?”
“The book is amazing, I would have been surprised had they not liked it. That’s great news. Keep writing, honey. Make us proud. You will have to send me an autographed copy of the book when it comes out.”
“I most definitely will. Thank you for the opportunity and the encouragement. I love you,” I said finally before I hung up the receiver.
For the next few weeks, I was kept very busy with Mr. Russell Grant, who became my publisher and my agent as well. I didn’t know that I needed an agent, but he had persuade
d me into believing I did. I signed all the endless paperwork, which was almost as long as my book. I opened up a bank account at the closest branch near Larry’s house, first to deposit the publisher’s cheque and, also, to deposit my Nana’s precious cash.
Russell Grant was a man in his early 30s who had made it in the publishing industry by having written one bestseller at the age of 25. His book was more of a travel chronicle than a fiction, but it had caught the public’s fascination and, overnight, Russell became the talk of the literary community. He explained his story to me, mainly to impress upon me the importance of having an agent, because he had had none. Without an agent, Russell’s good fortune was very short lived. As fast as his popularity had grown, it had fizzled out even faster. He had only been a one-book wonder. After his short career as a writer, he found a position with the same publishing company. Other than minimal royalties, he was now just a salaried employee, struggling like many others to make a decent living. He had started to hire himself out as an agent and when he found new writers, he was not just feeding off their rewards, but handing out crucial information and guiding their careers so the writers didn’t end up becoming one-book wonders like him.
He was a handsome man, single and very dedicated to his clients. His vibrant personality overshadowed his physical limitations. He was not a tall fellow and had a slight limp due to a childhood bout with polio. The limp was barely noticeable, yet he used to be self-conscious as a young man thus, he never pursued the company of women.
