Refugees

by Kim Fielding

  Refugees

  Kim Fielding

  Copyright © 2016 by Kim Fielding

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  About the Author

  1

  Walter Clark had hoped the sight of the ocean wouldn’t bother him. This was the Pacific, after all, not the same body of water he’d seen tinged red with the blood of his friends and comrades off the Normandy beach. But as soon as he turned south onto the Oregon Coast Highway and saw the vast expanse of roiling gray water, his heart sped and his breathing shallowed. He could hear the blasts of artillery and the screams of the wounded, could smell the metal tang of death mixed with the salt of the sea.

  This was a mistake. He should have stayed inland.

  Somehow he made it over the high Yaquina Bay Bridge without crashing his old Ford, and he was even able to continue a few miles farther south before his hands shook so violently he could barely control the wheel. Instead of the road before him, he saw red sand, gray landing craft, and green-clad men. When he found himself swerving to avoid an iron hedgehog that had existed six years earlier and five thousand miles away, he pulled to the side of the highway and tried to regain control.

  Bitter tears of anger and frustration stung his eyes and ran down his cheeks, but he refused to acknowledge them by wiping them away.

  He might have stayed there for hours, but the idling car hiccoughed impatiently. It was a ’37, a relic of prewar days, and although it had conveyed him all the way from Chicago, it could be temperamental. The last thing he wanted was to be stranded here, with the waves pounding like mortar shells so very close by. He carefully pulled back onto the road and drove slowly, like a nearsighted old man, his hands clenched painfully on the wheel.

  He had no idea how much time passed before he spied a road leading inland through the trees. A sign said Kiteeshaa. Walter didn’t know what that meant but turned left anyway. Wherever the asphalt led, it was away from the ocean, and that was what he needed.

  As it turned out, Kiteeshaa was a town. Or more accurately, a little hamlet with a population of 178, according to the welcome sign. The village was four or five miles inland and spread across a flat meadow between steep, tree-covered hills. A handful of businesses lined the main street, and beyond that, earth-toned bungalows and moss-roofed little ranch-style houses clustered in the valley and climbed the bases of the slopes.

  Walter parked in the small gravel lot in front of the Kitee Café. He got out of the car, stretched, and spent several moments looking around. He heard faint voices—children laughing—but saw nobody. A sense of peace settled on him like a cooling mist, making his shoulders loosen and his lungs work more smoothly. He leaned against the Ford and inhaled deeply, enjoying the scents of pine and damp as well as the sight of the green hills. Kiteeshaa felt a world away from Chicago, where he’d been born and raised.

  He’d enjoyed the excitement and bustle of the city… before. But when he’d returned from war, the tall buildings had oppressed him and the clatter of the L and other traffic had startled him. His family had become strangers. For a few years, he’d held out hope that eventually he’d do what was expected of him: settle back into the family business, find a girl and marry, buy a little house in a newly built suburb, have children. Other soldiers he knew had managed that much. But five years after returning from Europe, he still didn’t feel at home. His parents had looked relieved when he’d thrown a duffel bag into the back of his car after deciding that a change of scenery was better than drinking himself to death.

  He felt disappointed when he saw that the Kitee Motor Court Inn, next door to the cafe, appeared to be out of business. Although the lot between the neat little buildings was empty, a faded sign read No Vacancy. He would have liked to stay here for a few days, but since that was impossible, at least he could eat something. He was hungry, and a big Open sign hung in the café’s front window.

  Before he had a chance to go inside, a man headed toward him from the motor court office. There was nothing remarkable about the man’s khaki trousers or gray plaid shirt, but Walter had the immediate impression that he was a foreigner. Maybe because of his sand-colored curls—which would have earned ridicule from Walter’s crew-cut brothers in Chicago—or maybe the slight upward tilt of his widely set eyes. Perhaps it was the way he moved his lanky body, with long, smooth, catlike strides instead of the jerky, businesslike stomps Walter saw back home.

  As the man neared, Walter tried to concentrate on the puzzle of his strangeness rather than the beauty of his face.

  “Are you lost?” asked the man when he drew close. Sure enough, he had a faint accent Walter couldn’t place. He wore a friendly smile, but his sharp gaze scrutinized.

  “No. I was just deciding whether to eat here.”

  “Ah.” The man nodded. “Sometimes folks lose their way around here. We’re used to giving directions. But the food’s good.” He gestured with his chin toward the café.

  “Thanks.” Walter hoped he wasn’t staring inappropriately. “I, uh, guess I’ll give it a try. Anything on the menu you recommend?”

  The man’s smile softened. “Ask Dorothy for the special.” Then he nodded again before heading back to the motor court.

  The interior of the Kitee Café smelled so wonderful that Walter’s knees almost went weak. Grilling meat, brewing coffee, something fruity and a little spicy that might have been a baking pie. About a dozen Formica-topped tables were scattered haphazardly throughout the space, each surrounded by four wooden chairs and crowned with a little vase of wildflowers. A long counter with stools stretched along one wall. This close to the ocean, Walter had expected nautical décor, but the framed photos on the wall depicted starry night skies.

  The only other customers were an elderly couple in one corner and, near the center of the room, two young women with a baby in a high chair. They all stared at him—even the baby. Then a middle-aged woman with dark hair in a long braid appeared from the kitchen. “You here for dinner?” she asked, crinkling her eyes at him. Like the man from the inn, she had a hint of an accent.

  “Yes, please.”

  She gestured widely. “Sit wherever you like. Can I start you with some coffee?”

  “Milk, please.” Coffee only increased his jitters.

  He chose a table next to the front window because he felt most comfortable when he wasn’t hemmed in. She bustled into the kitchen and a moment later set a tall glass of milk in front of him. Then she pulled a folded paper menu from her apron pocket. “Take your time. Just give me a holler when you’ve decided. I’m Dorothy.”

  He took the offered menu but didn’t look at it. “The, uh, man from next door said I should ask for the special.” He felt foolish mentioning it.

  Dorothy’s eyebrows flew upward. “Did he, now?” She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at him, then seemed to reach some kind of decision. “Is that what you want?”

  He didn’t even know what the special was, but he nodded. “Yes. Please.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  While he waited, he stared out the window and pretended he didn’t notice the locals watching him. Not a single car went by, but a noisy group of children raced past, a dog barking happily among them. Children made him uneasy, even his own nephews and nieces. They were too prone to unsettling bursts of energy, but even worse, they reminded him of the orphans he’d seen in Europe—
ragged, hollow-eyed boys and girls who begged for candy.

  “Here you are,” Dorothy said, setting several plates in front of him.

  Walter’s breath caught. A steaming bowl held barley soup with bits of carrots. A pile of well-stuffed pierogi gleamed on an oversized dish, while a dollop of beet salad with horseradish provided a splash of brightness. Two thick slices of rye bread filled a small plate to the side. “Wh-what?” he stammered.

  “The special,” replied Dorothy with a smile.

  He blinked hard several times, half expecting the food to fade like a mirage. But when his vision cleared, the meal remained, smelling even better than he’d remembered.

  “Is something wrong?” Dorothy asked.

  “I…. No. It’s only…. My babcia used to make these things for me.” His mother’s mother, Magda Sokolowksy, had emigrated from Poland when she was a young woman. She used to pinch his cheeks and tell him he was too skinny, and she’d died while he was overseas.

  “I hope ours are almost as good as hers,” Dorothy said before sailing away.

  He lifted his soup spoon for a first, careful taste. Oh God. It was as good as hers. He remembered sitting at her kitchen table—he was so small, he had to perch on phone books—and nibbling on cinnamon cookies as he watched her bustle around the crowded little space. She’d listen to him prattle on endlessly about school or the last movie he’d seen, and she’d refill his milk glass and call him robaczku—little bug.

  Almost before he knew it, and still awash in memories of his grandmother, Walter ate everything in front of him.

  Dorothy beamed when she came to clear the table. “Everything was good?”

  “Wonderful. Are… are you Polish?” He didn’t think her accent sounded like his grandmother’s.

  She laughed kindly. “No. I just like to, well, collect recipes. Now, how about a nice slice of loganberry pie?”

  He’d already eaten far too much, but he didn’t want to leave yet. This was such a good place. Besides, he had no idea where to go next. “I’d like that,” he told her.

  She brought him an enormous slab with a huge scoop of ice cream melting on top. When he started to protest over the cup of coffee she’d set down, she shook her head. “Decaffeinated,” she said. He couldn’t refuse that.

  He was still lingering over a refill an hour later. Night had fallen, and several more customers now sat in the café. They all seemed to know one another, and they ate a bewildering array of foods, but although they stared at Walter, he didn’t sense hostility.

  Dorothy came to the table. “More coffee?” she asked.

  He sighed. “I guess you probably want me to clear out, huh?”

  She flapped a hand. “You stay as long as you want.”

  “Can you recommend a hotel nearby? Someplace not too expensive.” He’d spent a few weeks working at the paper mill a couple hours away in Albany, so he had a little cash, but not much. And who knew when he’d earn more, especially now that his inability to tolerate the ocean meant he had to abandon his plan to find a job at a lumber mill down the coast.

  “Well, there’s the Ester Lee in Taft. It’s a bit of a drive from here, but the ocean views are lovely.”

  He winced. “I, uh, don’t really like the ocean.”

  She didn’t laugh at him or act like he was a lunatic, which he appreciated. Instead, she patted his shoulder. “Wait.”

  Walter didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he remained in his comfortable seat by the window, sipping the cooling remains of his coffee and toying with the little vase of flowers. He startled when the man from the motor court smiled and waved from the other side of the glass. A few seconds later, the man was inside, taking a seat opposite Walter.

  “Martin Wright,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Martin’s grip was firm and uncallused and perhaps lingered a moment longer than the norm. “Walter Clark.”

  God, Martin was gorgeous. Thick eyelashes framed the palest blue eyes Walter had ever seen. A long, narrow nose. Lush lips. A cleft chin. It was hard to gauge Martin’s age—at first glance, he’d seemed close to Walter’s thirty. But his eyes were older somehow, much like Walter thought his own must be. Maybe Martin had been a soldier too.

  Walter did his best to act normal. “Thanks for the dinner suggestion,” he said.

  When Martin smiled, he suddenly looked like a teenager. He could have been mistaken for an angel. “You had the special?’

  “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d ever eat those things again. At least, not like my babcia used to make them.”

  For some reason, Martin seemed as satisfied as if he’d conjured the wonderful meal himself. “Dorothy says you’re looking for a hotel but you don’t care for the ocean. You’re not a tourist?”

  “No,” Walter replied, not wanting to share his story, even with a handsome stranger.

  “I have a room available next door.” Martin gestured toward the motor court.

  “The sign says no vacancy.”

  “I’m just selective in who I rent to.”

  “That’s a hell of a way to run a business,” Walter said, scowling.

  Martin simply shrugged.

  It was probably some kind of a swindle. But Walter was sleepy after the huge meal and weary after all his travels, and he couldn’t wrap his brain around what Martin might want from him. Hell, whatever Martin did want, let him have it. It wasn’t as if Walter had much to lose—a little money, a battered jalopy, a life going nowhere.

  “Sounds good,” Walter finally said.

  While Martin returned to the motor court, presumably to ready a room, Walter paid for his meal. It cost less than he expected, and as he walked to his car, it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen money change hands with any of the other customers. Dorothy hadn’t gone near the cash register until she gave Walter his change. Maybe the café worked on credit for locals. Unsound business practices might be a local tradition. Walter’s father had worked his way from the poverty of the Depression to a thriving construction business. He would heartily disapprove.

  Walter retrieved his military-issue duffel bag from the trunk of the Ford. It brought back far too many unsettling memories, yet when he’d packed his things in Chicago, he’d chosen the duffel instead of a suitcase. He didn’t know why.

  Martin watched from the motor court office as Walter crunched across the gravel. His light eyebrows were drawn together in a slight frown that eased as Walter drew closer. “I’m giving you unit three,” Martin said, dangling a key from one finger. “It’s the best cabin.”

  “Thanks.” They hadn’t discussed costs, but Walter wasn’t in the mood for caution. He wanted… well, very surprisingly, not a stiff drink. Over the past few years, he’d always wanted that, but this evening the need was light on his shoulders. Which was good, considering Kiteeshaa didn’t appear to have a bar. No, what he wanted now was a quiet room, a comfortable bed, and a night of oblivion unhaunted by nightmares.

  Each of the motor court units was a tiny white-shingled building with a red roof. Red posts framed the minuscule front porches, but the porch on number three was a bit larger than the others—just big enough for a single patio chair. Martin unlocked the door and stood aside so Walter could enter.

  Everything looked neat and clean. A colorful quilt covered the large bed, and a little table with two chairs nestled under a window. One corner of the room held a kitchenette with a sink, a two-burner stove, two cupboards, and a small refrigerator. The bureau was an incongruously bulky thing that seemed to be hewn from logs. Someone had scattered a few rag rugs over the wooden floor, and more photos of starry skies graced the wood-paneled walls. Through an open door, Walter could see a bathroom with a toilet, sink, and tub/shower combo.

  “Is it all right?” Martin asked. He seemed slightly nervous.

  Walter gave him a genuine smile. “It’s perfect.” It was. Homey without being overdone, brightly lit by several lamps, and not remotely reminiscent of either his family house in Chicago or an
ywhere he’d slept during the war.

  “Good.” Martin gestured at the small woodstove, which was lit with a glowing fire. “More wood’s out back when you want it. I’m sorry this cabin doesn’t have a television, but—”

  “I never watch it.” That was true. The inanities made his jaw hurt.

  “All right, then. If you need anything, just come knock on the office door.”

  “You work all night?”

  Martin grinned. “I live here. I have a little apartment. Cozy.”

  For no reason at all, that pleased Walter.

  After Martin left, Walter unpacked, tucking his clothes into drawers or hanging them in the closet. Then he took a long, hot shower. He’d brought back a few scars from the war, but they were small, insignificant. Anyone who saw his naked body would never guess what he’d been through. But Walter knew, and when he looked down at himself, he could see the inner wounds as clearly as if his skin were transparent. He didn’t look at himself often.

  Warm and clean, smelling faintly of Ivory soap, Walter turned off all the lights but one and climbed into bed. As always, he left his pistol at the bedside. When he’d first returned to Chicago, he couldn’t even leave the house without it, even though he’d been terrified he might accidentally shoot someone. He’d considered it a major victory when he required the gun nearby only at night.

  It wasn’t late yet, but he didn’t care. He’d found a good place to shut off the world, and he wanted to clock out now.

  With one lamp lending a comforting glow, he quickly fell asleep.

  2

  Walter awoke later than usual, well rested and more content than he’d felt in ages. The mattress was a good one, and the sheets were soft and sweet-scented. But unit three itself had been the real soporific, without any sinister shadows for his demons to hide in. He hadn’t awakened with bad dreams even once.