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Soul of Cole

Page 21

by Micheal Maxwell


  “Thank you.”

  The patrolman walked her into the station and to a small room off the main hall.

  “I’ll leave the door open. When they finish with you, I’ll carry you home.”

  CHAPTER 19

  In the three months since the murders of Warren and Judy Poore, Orvin drifted back into its same old, slow, uneventful self. The death of Michael Blackbear seemed an eternity ago. Still, as he lay in the dark at night, Cole was haunted by the image of the young veteran raising the gun to his head.

  Cole dreaded going downtown today with Kelly. Since Rebecca Poore took over the Children’s Center, Kelly reduced her days of volunteer work each week down to two. Three weeks ago she actually forgot it was the day she was supposed to go in. In gratitude for her generous help during the transition, Kelly was asked to be one of the four people to hold the banner at the dedication and re-christening of the Center.

  The words on his monitor became just funny, black marks on a white background as Cole let his eyes fall out of focus, and he drifted deep into his own thoughts. This was the third book he had started in as many months. After reviewing Tears of an Angel he realized what a foolish, overworked and, frankly, silly idea the story of a girl and a diamond in WWII was. His second book was an attempt at a science fiction novel. That, too, was abandoned after he realized he couldn’t come up with a satisfactory means of the hero actually getting to go back in time. His latest effort was the story of a journalist caught in a web of corrupt politicians, the mob, and his own conscience. He was nearly ten thousand words in, but it slowed to less than a drip of words on the page per day.

  Cole stared at the folder on the monitor labeled Books Ideas, Outlines. He hit delete, and in two keystrokes it was gone, as were all his fruitless attempts at being a novelist.

  He heard a noise in the kitchen and called to Kelly. “What time do we have to leave?”

  “About half an hour, are you ready to go?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” Cole closed his laptop. He leaned back in his chair and tried to remember the name of the girl who was killed struggling with her sister. He started to ask Kelly, but decided bringing up painful memories was probably not the best idea on what was meant to be a happy and exciting reopening.

  “You’re not ready to go.” Kelly not only sounded annoyed but she was frowning as she moved toward the desk.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Cole stood, reached his arms out and turned around.

  “You’re really gonna wear a pair of jeans?”

  “Why, yes, I am. What’s the matter? Isn’t my belt buckle big enough? You’re the only one that’s going to be seen. Nobody cares what I wear. Besides, I intend to sneak off the second that ribbon is cut and go to the post office.”

  “Alright, I’m going to run upstairs and finish getting dressed.”

  An hour later, Cole found himself standing in a group of around forty people listening to speech after speech; by the mayor, the head of the Chamber of Commerce, and the president of the Rotary Club. He felt quite proud of himself having made it through all the speeches so far. Now it was Rebecca Poore’s turn at the podium.

  The royal blue dress she wore was modern, age appropriate, and quite flattering. Her hair was pulled back and tied with a matching ribbon. For the first time Cole saw her in make-up and, all-in-all, she looked quite lovely.

  Rebecca stood for several seconds looking out over the crowd. “As you all know this has been a very dark season for my family. Many times over the last three months I have questioned the wisdom of continuing with this project. To be truthful, at times I questioned my sanity. The crowd stood silent. “Laugh, it was a joke.” Rebecca gave a broad smile and the twinkle in her eye showed a woman in complete control of her surroundings and her determination to achieve her goals. “My father,” She looked skyward for an almost undetectable second, “My father had a favorite Bible verse, Galatians 6:9. ‘Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.’ Since his death it has comforted me not just by God’s love, but it was like having him with me, and his arm around my shoulder, as I took on tasks that at times seemed more than I could bear.

  “Today, as we gather here to honor my father’s dream and dedicate the new Warren Poore Children’s Center, I want you, the people of my hometown, to know that it is my dream too. My father had a good idea, but it didn’t go far enough. I want this Center to be a tool for mending the hurts and long-held, wrongful beliefs that have kept the people of this community apart. No one is to blame, and everyone is to blame. White, Hispanic, Indian, African-American, every member of this community is welcome and will be represented here.

  “It is my belief, and goal, that this Center will raise up a generation of children that will be free of prejudice, hate, and distrust of their neighbors here in Orvin. So, please join me in pledging a commitment to seeing that this dream becomes a reality.”

  Rebecca left the podium and, along with Kelly and the other speakers, moved to the front of the doors. A pretty redheaded woman from the Chamber of Commerce, with the help of her boss, unrolled a yellow ribbon with the words Congratulations. It sparkled with way too much glitter she obviously applied after its purchase. Rebecca Poore was given the three foot ceremonial scissors.

  “There’s someone I want up here with me during this ribbon cutting ceremony, without whose help, support, and encouragement I could have never gotten the Center reopened. Even though it was mostly done on Face Time, I couldn’t have done it without him. Matt Walker, could you please join me?”

  From the side of the crowd a handsome young man in Wrangler jeans and a crisp, blue, oxford cloth shirt approached Rebecca. She reached up with her free hand grasping the collar of his shirt and pulled him towards her. She gave him a kiss to the applause of the onlookers.

  “That was just a nice way of saying Thank you,” she giggled. “I guess this is where I say thank you to everyone, and I declare the Warren Poore Children’s Center open for business.” Rebecca whacked at the ribbon with the scissors. It didn’t cut so she tried it again. Still not cutting, Matt reached into his pocket for a small pocket knife and slit the ribbon in two. Then she added, “I told you I couldn’t do this without him.” The crowd laughed and applauded.

  Rebecca turned, opened the double doors and said, “Come take a look. We’ve got cookies and a big cake, lots of coffee, and some pretty good punch.”

  Cole made his way through the crowd to where Kelly stood chatting with the young redhead from Chamber of Commerce. “I’m going to run over to the post office.” Cole held up the blue envelope containing Jenny’s birthday card.

  “Don’t you want some cake and coffee?”

  “Yeah, maybe when I get back.”

  “Okay, I’ll be here.”

  Cole turned and made his way from the crowd.

  “Hey there, Mr. Sage.”

  Cole greeted the clerk at the window by waving the envelope in his hand. “Got one going to Paris. Got any kind of fun stamps?”

  “Let me go look.”

  A couple of minutes later the clerk returned with three sheets of stamps and an envelope. “Say, you know somebody expecting something from the State Department? This was undeliverable. But, look here, your name made it through.”

  There was a splash of something dark across the address leaving only fragments of Orvin, OK, the zip code, and Cole’s name at the bottom left corner.

  The clerk looked intently at the envelope. “One of the gals in the back recognized your name.”

  Cole looked at the return address. His stomach flipped over.

  It wasn’t just the State Department; it was the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.

  “You okay, Mr. Sage? You look a little peaked.”

  “I’m fine. The stamps?”

  “Well, we’ve got Flowers of the West, Lena Horne; I got a couple of John Lennon’s available.”

  “Never liked him. I’m a George guy, myself.”
Cole looked over the stamps spread out on the counter.

  “I’m a George guy too, George Strait.” The clerk grinned.

  Cole gave a weak chuckle looking down again at the envelope.

  “And here are some Mr. Rogers, and a whole sheet of these silly Scooby-Doo things.”

  “This is for my granddaughter’s tenth birthday, those seem a little young. Got anything else?”

  “Well, let’s see.” The clerk pulled out her drawer under the counter and lifted the tray. “I’ve got these left.”

  Cole looked down to see three stamps illustrated with colorful kites.

  “Perfect, give me those.” Cole put two dollars on the counter.

  “I don’t need the change. Just use all three of those stamps. I’m in kind of a hurry.”

  Out on the sidewalk, Cole approached a bench in front of the Post Office and began to tear open the envelope. As he sat down, he pulled the single sheet of trifold paper from the end of the ripped envelope and began to read.

  Mr. Blackbear,

  We are pleased to tell you that your application for your fiancée Miriam Al-Omari, and your son, is being processed. We have made attempts to reach you by phone with no success.

  We have forwarded the letter of approval to the American Embassy in Bagdad for her to pick up at her earliest convenience.

  It is also our pleasure to inform you that as family of a Veteran of the United States Army and of the conflict in Iraq, we are extending to Miriam and your son transportation on an Air Force transport plane with a destination of Vance Air Force Base, Enid Oklahoma. Details and arrangements to be worked out in country by US military personnel. The necessary documents will be included in the packet sent to our Embassy in Bagdad.

  Congratulations, we are pleased to be able to bring your family back together again.

  Sincerely,

  Susan Waltham

  Secretary to Donald W. Syverson

  Under Secretary of State

  Cole folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. The sidewalk was busy for a Saturday morning. A young woman with long, dark hair pushed a stroller passed him and smiled. Cole nodded.

  A Styrofoam cup caught by the wind bounced down the sidewalk. Hitting a seam in the concrete it bounced, and caught by a gust, it blew into the gutter. It bounced twice and rolled into the street. A pick-up rolled by missing the cup, but the little, green Fiat that came next smashed it flat.

  Kind of like life, Cole thought. I think I’ll use that in a book. He made an ‘oomph’ sound. “Forget it.”

  Cole’s mind shifted to Miriam and the little boy. How would they react to getting their Visa? He was sure no one notified them of Michael Blackbear’s death. When she couldn’t make contact with him, would she still make the 7,000 mile journey to a foreign country where she didn’t know anyone, with no promise of meeting up with the father of her child? Would the Immigration Officials let her stay without an American husband or fiancé?

  Cole sighed deeply and slapped his thigh with the envelope. He struggled within himself for an answer to the question that he wouldn’t let formulate. What was his responsibility in all this?

  “When did you take to sitting on benches?”

  Cole looked up. Standing in front of him was the old guy he met on the bench in front of the Children’s Center the same day he met Michael Blackbear.

  “I figured you’d be down with all the swells at the ribbon cutting.”

  “How you doin’? Have a piece of my bench.” Cole grinned and scooted over a bit.

  “Whatcha got here?” The old guy reached for the letter.

  Cole grinned. There was nothing shy about the old guy, no filters and no worry about social convention. Cole handed him the letter.

  “Kind of the ending to a sad story.”

  He began to read the letter. “Blackbear, isn’t that the fella that was holding up the jewelry stores?” What do you supposed his idea was?”

  “Another way.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He gave up on the legal options and decided to buy their way here. The cops found the phone number of a known Coyote in his jeans pocket.”

  “And here’s the help he needed.” The old guy handed the letter back to Cole.

  “Yep.”

  “So what now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Way I see, it ain’t your rodeo, ain’t your horse, somebody else can clean up after it.”

  “I’ve been sitting here thinking what I might have said, or done, different. I think I have come to the same conclusion.”

  “You can’t regret things. It will drive you crazy. Look at me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have regrets that put me on benches and barstools.”

  “What’s your biggest regret?” Cole watched the old guy look at his hands, his thoughts forming.

  “I guess it all comes down to this town.”

  “How so?”

  “I wish I’d left this one-horse-mud-hole years ago. No, that ain’t it. I wish I never came back after the war. I wish I’d seen the world. I regret that. I wish I could have seen the world.” The old guy looked over at Cole. “You seen the world?”

  “Yep. I have been all over the world. Six of the seven continents, and I lost track of countries.”

  “Which one did you miss? There are seven, right?”

  “Antarctica.”

  “Hell, that don’t count. Nobody there. I would have loved to see people in other places doin’ what they do, see how they dress, and eat what they eat.”

  “Travel memories are the one thing nobody can ever take away from you. Those people you meet, the food, the history. You’re right.”

  “So, tell me. What do you regret?”

  “Not much, to tell the truth. But you know—” Cole stopped. He thought of Ellie. He thought of the years he spent thinking about her. That was his regret. Though he would never speak it. “Looking back, I think God guides our path. There are things I would have changed, sure. Thing is, I wouldn’t have what I have now. So, I guess you can’t dwell on the past. Like Dylan said, ‘Don’t look back’.”

  “Who’s Dylan?”

  “A fella I grew up with.”

  “I think he was onto something.” The old guy slapped his knees. “Yes sir, I think he was onto something.” He nodded and lifted his chin toward Cole. “So now what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve got leavin’ written all over your face. All I had to do was mention seein’ the world and you were already gone. Your woman know you feel like that?”

  Cole laughed. It felt fake, forced, and contrived. “I think she just might.”

  “If I was your age, no way would I use up my life sittin’ around here. That’s all I’m doin’, sittin’ around waitin’ to die.”

  “You’ve got a long time before that happens. Maybe we should chop a few cars.” Cole grinned at the old guy.

  “You don’t look like a chopper. What did you do before you got here?”

  “I spent my whole life as a newspaperman.”

  “You a writer?”

  “That’s what they paid me for. War correspondent, political and community social issues, murder investigations, you name it, I wrote about it.”

  “I’ll be damned. You should write a book!”

  “I’ve been trying. I think the well’s gone dry.” Cole shrugged.

  “What have you been writing about?” The old guy was genuinely interested.

  “I started out writing a book about corrupt officials and the mob, then a time travel science fiction thing, the last one was about a girl with a diamond she carries through WWII, and concentration camps.”

  “You know about all that stuff?”

  “Apparently not enough.”

  “How’s that?”

  “When I read it back, it was all crap. It wouldn’t hold anybody’s interest, it just sounds silly. It certainly wouldn’t sell. Funny thing. Just before I c
ame down here for the ribbon cutting, I deleted it all.”

  “What’s that mean, exactly? I’m not a computer guy. But it don’t sound good.”

  “It is exactly what it sounds like. I had it all in a file and I hit the delete button, erasing it all from the computer. Good-bye and farewell.”

  “Isn’t that kind of like building a house, then burning it to the ground?”

  Cole looked at the old guy and smiled brightly. “That, my friend, is a brilliant analogy. That is exactly what it is like. The thing is, though, these houses were shacks.” Cole laughed and smiled at the old guy with appreciation.

  “You don’t seem none to upset about it.”

  “Not a bit.”

  “So what are you gonna do now?”

  “Well, since you won’t chop cars with me, I’m not sure.”

  “I’m serious. Don’t poke fun at me. I ain’t pokin’ fun at you.” The old guy was clearly offended by Cole’s repeated reference to his criminal past.

  “Sorry, I meant no disrespect. I truly don’t know.”

  “How many years you in the writing game?”

  “Almost thirty.”

  “And you been all over the world?”

  “A lot of it. Where’d you live?”

  “Chicago and San Francisco, mostly.”

  The old guy considered Cole’s answers before speaking. “‘To thine own self be true.’ I heard that somewhere.”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “You makin’ fun again? When would I have read Shakespeare? I believe it was in a Willie Nelson song. An old one. Anyways, you need to write about the stuff you saw. Make it a like an adventure story. You can start with that crazy Indian friend of yours. Write a detective story about him. Hell, you got the wow finish right there.” The old guy pointed at the envelope from the State Department.

  Cole slapped the palm of his hand with the envelope. He looked at the guy for a long moment. “You’re right. It has all the key elements of a great mystery.”

  “So where do you start?”

 

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