“Humph.” The bank manager turned and walked back to his desk.
Jack turned back to the teller who was counting his money. She cocked her head, winked at him, and said, “Good show. You told him, and he deserved it. You know,” she continued, “he really is nosy about everything. And he’s a terrible manager. All of us will be glad when—if, I guess—he leaves.
“Now, then,” she said, as she slowly counted the money once again in front of him. “Do you want to count it as well?”
“Nope. I watched you, and it seems okay.”
She put the money in an envelope and handed it to him. “The account is now closed. If you want to put some of that money back in, you’ll have to open a new account. He’ll be nosy about that, too,” she said with a sly smile, “so just come to me with whatever you want to redeposit. Or,” she added, “you could just leave enough in the account to keep it open. I think there’s a five hundred dollar minimum balance on that type of account. Let me see.” She began typing on her keyboard.
“No,” Jack said, “I do want to close the account.”
“Okay. No problem. Have a good day. And don’t spend it all at once!”
He smiled. “I won’t, maybe.” With the money in his pocket he turned and walked out of the bank.
Back at the house, Jack returned to his room and continued to review his clothes, trying to decide what he most needed to take and how he could fit all of it into his pack. Levi’s jeans, of course. But he should get a pair of pants with good, deep pockets, maybe inner pockets, in which he could carry money safely. Long-sleeve shirts. A sweater. And a jacket. His Gore-tex jacket would do nicely. But not too much else, he thought. He could buy more if and when he needed it.
Jack heard the front door open downstairs. Edward and his father had returned from the garage. He stepped out into the hall, closing his bedroom door, and started down the stairs.
“Hello, Jack,” Walter Stavitch said to his son. “Did you make some progress at the winery?”
“Yeah, sort of,” Jack replied. “Maybe this weekend, maybe Friday before the winery opens, you could go over what you want done with me once more. I think there’s enough to do to keep me busy most of the summer, but I need to be sure to get things done in the right order. What’s most urgent in your mind.”
“Sure. We can do that.”
Walter turned to his wife. “How are you today, Millie?”
“Uh, about the same, I guess.”
“And for dinner?
“I dunno. Better order in. Chinese, maybe?” She got up from the couch and walked slowly to the stairs, wine bottle in hand. “I’m going to lie down and rest for a bit,” she said as she headed up to their bedroom. Walter Stavitch shook his head and headed for the kitchen to pour himself a glass of wine.
At dinner—Chinese take-out—Jack said to Walter, “I want to go out after we eat. Marilyn has a summer job at the Madison library, and she has to work next Saturday evening. If it’s okay, I’d like to borrow the pickup and go out to a movie with her tonight.”
“Sure, fine. She’s a nice girl, young woman. A good girlfriend for you.”
Table cleared and dishes done, Jack picked up his Gore-tex jacket and headed out to collect Marilyn.
“Well,” Marilyn said as she stepped out of the Hanson front door, “what’s on for tonight?”
“Shopping, if that’s okay?”
“I guess. Shopping for what?”
“Tent, sleeping bag, camping stuff. Stuff I’ll need traveling.”
“So you’re getting ready to run away? Really and truly?”
“Yes,” Jack replied firmly. “Really and truly.”
“And where do I fit in?”
“Oh, Marilyn, you do fit in. I can’t see life without you. But I have to get away from here. I’m not sure how we’ll get together nor when. But we will. I’m running from my family, not from you.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that. I believe you, I guess. But I sure feel like I’m being left hanging. And also, as I’ve told you, this is a stupid, really stupid thing you’re doing. It won’t solve anything.”
“I hear you, Marilyn. I know you think I’m being dumb. But I’m not. There just is no other choice for me.”
“Yes, you’ve said that. And I get the message—I guess, maybe. But if you think you are going to run off to a life of roses, of sweetness and honey, you’re just plain dumb! Dumber than I thought.”
“I know. That’s the way you see it. But I see it differently. And I’m doing it.”
Jack parked the pickup at Walmart. They headed for the sporting goods section. They found a large supply of fishing rods and lures, but none of the camping items Jack thought he might need as he traveled. “You know,” Marilyn said, “there’s a Dick’s off of I-271, not far from where it branches off of I-90. I’ve seen it from the highway. I’m not sure, but it might be a place to look.”
They found Dick’s and explored the camping area. “This is a place for hunters and serious fishing folks,” Jack commented as they wondered through the sporting good section. “I don’t see any camping stuff.”
“Let’s ask,” said Marilyn.
They found a clerk who listened to their request and told them that they were unlikely to find what they wanted in this store. “Appalachian Outfitters is probably your best bet.”
“Where’s that?” Jack asked.
“Well, it’s about a half-hour on down I-271 and then Route 8. Here, let me draw you a map.” Taking out a pencil from his pocket and finding a piece of paper, he gave them directions.
Jack turned to Marilyn. “Okay if we go there? Today? Now?”
“I guess. Might as well.”
Jack and Marilyn found Appalachian Outfitters. Entering the store, they walked through an area displaying a large selection of camping and leisure clothing. “Oh, look, Jack,” Marilyn said as she examined trousers hanging on racks. “Pants like these might be perfect for you while you’re traveling. They have lots of pockets. And some have hidden ones with zippers where you can keep your money. With these, you won’t need a money belt. And many of them have zip-off legs to convert them into shorts. You might like that in Florida.”
“Let me see. Oh, seventy-nine dollars. That’s a lot to pay, I think.”
“Jack, you just haven’t bought any clothes lately. That’s about right for these, I think. Here, go try this pair on.”
“They’re my size, I think,” Jack commented, and he took the pants to a dressing room. Emerging wearing the pants he turned in front of Marilyn. “So, how are they? What do you think?”
“I like them.”
“I guess I’ll buy them, but it seems like a lot to spend.”
“Hey, it’s your father who is the miser, isn’t it? Not you. Let me buy them. A going-away present. And when they wear out, you’ll have to come back here to buy another pair—with me.”
“Well, okay, I guess. I mean, thanks. Thanks a lot. My money will be tight until I get a job.” They took the pants to a central counter where Marilyn presented her debit card.
“Anything more I can do for you today?” the saleswoman asked.
“Yes,” Jack replied. “I want to buy a tent. And a sleeping bag.”
“Upstairs,” the saleswoman replied. Jack and Marilyn took the stairs to the second floor.
“I want to see about buying a tent,” Jack said in response to the question of a salesman.
“Over here.” He led Jack to a counter holding large catalogues. “We don’t stock actual tents. But we can have any of those in these books here in a couple of days for you to look at.”
Jack slowly paged through one of the catalogues while the salesman stood quietly at one side. “I just want a small tent for me. These all seem kind of expensive.” In fact, small tents, two-person in size, ranged upwards from about three hundred dollars. Jack assumed he would need a tent only until he was settled in Canada, and he thought he should not have to spend that much. Of course, he thought, I have to bala
nce this against the cheapest motel rooms I can find.
“You know,” the salesman replied, “I might be able to help you. “We had a tent returned last week. It was torn. Not much, only a small tear about two or three inches. The guy said it was that way when he got it from us. But it wasn’t, I’m sure. You know, these tents just don’t tear. Actually, the tear looked more like a cut to me. Maybe someone, maybe one of his kids, put a knife through it. The bottom of the tent was dirty; it had obviously been used. But we took the tent back—no questions asked—and I think my manager would let me sell it to you for, say, fifty dollars. As is. You could probably make the tent usable with a bit of duct tape.”
“Twenty-five, tax included,” said Jack, guessing that the store would be glad to get anything for the damaged tent.
“Let me ask the manager.” The salesman disappeared. He returned promptly with a tent rolled under his arm. “You’ve bought yourself a tent. Can I sell you a roll of duct tape?” He smiled.
Jack smiled back. “We have that in our garage. And thanks.”
Marilyn turned to the salesman and asked, “What’s it made of?”
“Nylon, rip-stop nylon.”
“Rip-stop? What’s that?”
“Here, look. See the ridging in the fabric? Not much, but enough to keep a tear from enlarging. That’s partly why I think the ‘tear’ that the man claimed when he returned this tent was actually a knife cut.” He then turned to Jack. “Have you done much tent camping?
“No. Not really. In fact, none, but I want to.”
“Well, let me give you a suggestion about this tent. You should have a plastic ground cloth under the tent. It will keep ground water from seeping up and wetting the tent bottom. And keep the bottom clean. The guy who tore—or more likely cut—this tent and returned it to us obviously didn’t use a ground cloth. It was dirty on the bottom. Take a big garbage bag and cut it on the sides to open it up. Then trim it to size. It should pretty much fit the bottom of the tent, but not stick out at the edges. If it does stick out, it will catch water that runs down off the surface of the tent and puddle it under the tent. Then dig a shallow trench all around the tent and opening out to the lowest point. Then if you get rain, it will keep water away from you. Also,” he continued, “the nylon in this tent has been treated and is supposed to be waterproof. But if you get rain, try not to touch the inside of the tent. Keep your sleeping bag and gear way from the tent sides.”
“Yeah. Good advice. Thanks.” Jack turned and started toward the stairs.
“Wait,” said Marilyn. Turning to the salesman she asked, “You have sleeping bags on this floor?”
“Over here.” He led the way across the room.
Jack looked at the sleeping bags. The nights in Canada will probably be cold, even in summer, he thought. Maybe I should check out a heavier sleeping bag. They’re probably on sale at this time of year. He looked at the price tag of what appeared to be a heavy-duty bedroll.
“You won’t need one of these arctic ones,” Marilyn commented. “Not in Florida.”
Ooops! Jack chuckled and shook his head. “You’re right,” he told Marilyn. “What was I thinking?” Close one. I almost spilled the beans.
The salesman beckoned them over to a display of light-weight sleeping bags. “One of these would probably better for you, seeing as you’ll be going south in the summer.”
“Thanks,” Jack replied. “How much is that green one?”
Carrying the tent and sleeping bag, Jack led Marilyn down the stairs to the cashier’s desk. He paid for his purchases with some of the cash he had taken from his bank account.
“You paid cash,” Marilyn commented with surprise in her voice.
“Yup. I don’t want to saddle my poor, impoverished father with a credit card balance after I’ve left.”
“You have the cash—enough for your travel and to last a while?”
“Uh-huh. I do. I cleaned out my savings account.”
“Oh, Jack, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yes, I should have.” They walked out to the pickup. “Marilyn, you have to realize that I am running away for good. My life here is over. As soon as I find a place in Florida to settle, I’ll open a bank account there and deposit all of this cash. Florida isn’t the end of the earth. They’ll have banks there,” Jack added with a smile. “Meanwhile, the money will be safe in all those pockets you just bought for me.” He paused for a bit, and then continued, “If I like Florida, I might settle down there. Or maybe someplace else. Wherever I settle and when I’m settled and have finished college, I’ll send for you. We can get married in Florida.”
“Wait a minute. You aren’t the only one with plans for the future. Yes, I want to marry you, but not in Florida. Here, not anywhere else. Here with my family and friends—and yours—in the Madison Congregational Church. You’ll have to come back for that. And, my friend, I think we should not get married until after we have both finished college.” She paused, and then continued. “Oh, I know that you have ideas about all of this, but so do I. My ideas count. And I’m also worried about you. I think this whole business is a terrible, dumb, dumb, dumb idea. But I guess I’ve told you that—a bunch of times. And remember, much of your fight with your dad is about getting a good college education. Don’t forget that. Don’t miss out on that score. Eugene O’Neill ran off, and he may be your model. But he went to work on a ship as a deckhand. I don’t want to marry an uneducated deckhand.
“Now,” she said with a smile, “how about a smoothie at the Seven-Eleven?”
4. Niagara
Stavitch Saint Urban Winery, the sign read. Jack had finished painting the signpost. He had cleaned the fence that ran along the front of the property and was now busily applying white paint to it. It was an attractive entrance to the winery, he thought. He worked carefully. The fence painting was made difficult because grape vines had been planted along the fence and had grown up onto it. This entrance, he recalled, had been designed years ago by his mother. She was then a woman with an eye for what was attractive and appealing. That was then. No longer. What a mess. Why won’t my father spend the money to get her help?
Marilyn brought the Hanson’s Toyota to a stop at the roadside and got out to greet Jack. “Well, you’re playing Tom Sawyer today, painting a fence?”
“Yeah, my ‘make-work’ chore for the morning. Would you like to take a turn? Here, have the brush. Isn’t that what Tom Sawyer did? Conned all his friends into doing his fence-painting chore?”
“I guess, but I’m not up for fence painting this morning.” She paused, seeming uncomfortable.
“So, where does the Saint Urban name come from?” she said, opening what she believed would be a neutral subject. “I’ve always wondered about that. Do you know?”
“Yeah, I guess I do, at least from what Dad says. Saint Urban is—or was, back in the three-hundreds, I think—a French monk who preached to vineyard workers. I don’t know much about him, but Dad thought he—or at least his name—would add class to the winery’s name. Of course, ‘Stavitch’ had to come first.”
“Oh, okay. It is a classy name. Better than most of the other winery names around here. And I like the Stavitch name. At least one of the Stavitches. One day I want that name for myself.”
Marilyn paused, hesitated, and then said, “Well, are you ready to take off?”
“Yeah, I have everything set to go. Give me a minute to go back to the house and get it. Wait here for me. I’ll be right back.”
“Jack,” Marilyn continued, “I really don’t like this. I think it is stupid. Real stupid. Running away like this won’t solve anything. Can’t I talk you out of this? Can’t you at least wait a bit to see if this is really what you want to do?”
Jack did not reply to Marilyn. He put the lid on the paint can and trotted to the house. He returned with his pack, sleeping bag, and tent.
“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to anyone?” Marilyn asked. “Aren’t you at least going to put away the
paint?”
“No. Dad and Edward are already at work in the winery getting ready for this afternoon. Saturdays are big days. And Mom is half-asleep in the living room with her wine glass and bottle on the side table beside her. This is such a sick family. I just have to get away. Maybe later I’ll come back, but for now I need to get out of here, out of this family.
“And, if they find the paint can here that will add some mystery. Maybe I should leave it open. I think I will.” He reopened the can.
“Okay, okay. Toss your stuff in the back seat, and climb in. But I don’t know why I’m helping you. This is such an idiotic thing to do.”
Marilyn drove to the Stavitch garage. It was locked, but Jack knew where the key was hidden. Inside he retrieved the key for the battered Volkswagen that Edward had acquired for the garage. In the office file cabinet he found the registration and title to the car. The title had been signed by the previous owner, but the rest of it was left incomplete. Walter Stavitch could fill that out when he sold it and thus present it as a single sale without having to pay the sales tax on it twice. Only the new owner would pay the seven percent, or six percent—Jack wasn’t quite sure and didn’t care.
VW key, registration, and title in hand, Jack closed and locked the garage. He returned the garage key to its hiding place. He took his gear from the Hanson car and put it in the back seat of the VW. He turned to Marilyn, who was standing and watching him. She was crying. He embraced her, kissed her, and said, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”
“Oh, Jack, I love you, and I don’t like what you are doing. It won’t help. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong. Running away from problems never solves them.”
“I’ll be all right. Really I will.”
Lost in a Far Country Page 4
