Once off the phone, Byron’s frequent attention deficit had no deficit at all as he rapidly cataloged a plan. Margie needed a break and some company; angel or no angel, he needed to be a good husband. Practically, he should take a pause to plan ahead anyway. Either he had gone off the deep end, or he was on the edge of something huge and it would take focus and planning to proceed. Either way, he knew it was time for a new chapter and his role at the Constellation had served its purpose.
He booked a flight out of Reno for the next day…late enough that he’d still be able to close the loop on the man named Shirley at the train station and hopefully make contact with Dr. Benson.
He had just exited the “Cheap Tickets.com” web site when his Blackberry released a trilling alert; it startled him off of the one-way track he’d raced down for the past hour. He looked at the device, curious if he’d forgotten an appointment, certain he had not. He set the phone aside after seeing he’d programmed the alarm to remind him of the start time for the Presidential address.
The pre-speech coverage had already begun when he turned on the television. Byron surmised he had worked in the wrong branch of media as he listened to the commentators. He could only guess what these buffoons were paid to babble their political opinions while biding time before the President took the stage.
“Bert, the subject of this address is yet unknown, but as international tensions increase, one must believe this will not be domestically related.”
“No doubt, Dabney. At a minimum, our experts, as well as all American citizens, expect to see the President’s response to the Chinese/Pakistani pipeline plans. The administration has been silent on this, as well as rumors that China is negotiating with Iran for oil and gas. A truly frightening prospect, if I do say so myself.”
“Speculations are high that OPEC will weigh in soon as well, Bert. I must tell you, I expect something from President Liang regarding OPEC’s position. That group has been a case of unhappy campers since the threat of competition from North America has become a near reality. Although we don’t know when the resources will come online from the Dakotas and Canada, this has to make those OPEC boys uncomfortable.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself. And, don’t you know, Dabney, with the added news of the Pakistani/China complex, OPEC may be facing the first real threat to their monopoly on the oil markets. The one chip they hold is that, to date, they still fuel the world…”
“Hold that thought, Bert, it looks like the man is taking the stage…”
Byron was relieved to be saved from Bert and Dabney’s blather, but he was also riveted, as always, when he saw Wing Liang on the television screen.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States.” Hail to the Chief played loudly through the cheap television’s tiny speakers.
Obligatory applause droned on as a small man stepped behind the podium. A slight but genuine smile crossed his face and he conservatively raised his hand in a short wave of acknowledgment. His demeanor was clear. This was not a campaign speech and it wasn’t a celebration. This was business.
Byron studied the face on the little television as the camera closed in. He didn’t know the physical statistics of American Presidents, but he guessed Liang’s build was among the slightest compared to his predecessors. He may have been five feet, eight inches at the most, but he made a trim and fit figure in his conservative gray suit. His shiny black hair was short and oddly spiked, either from a high dollar hair cut or an out-of-control full-head cow-lick that could only be sported as stylish. Byron didn’t think it mattered, because it was impossible to look at anything but the man’s face. His prominent Asian features were somehow overshadowed by his personal aura – his character; it was this which largely led to his win into the office. The man looked intelligent, yet always emitted an easy, but thoughtful air. He appeared to possess the rare quality, in politics anyway, of being a thinker and a feeler. Not flamboyant, but certainly not timid. Quiet strength, Byron thought.
Liang was not only the first Asian-American President, but he broke one more mold when he entered the office at the age of 41, barely edging out Theodore Roosevelt as the youngest President, just as he’d been the youngest astronaut on a space shuttle mission, coming in under Sally Ride by two years at the age of 30.
He challenged other traditions by being one of the few to rise directly to national politics, elected to the U.S. Senate, without having ever held a state position. He was the seventh President in U.S. history to serve in the office as a single man…only two others had been previously unmarried, one of whom went to the altar while in office. Although the romantics of the nation dreamed Liang would do the same, the President, himself suspected he’d follow the path of Buchanan as a life-long bachelor.
Byron stood in the middle of the room for the entire address, listening intently as the man spoke. The speech was shockingly short and it raised eyebrows throughout the world for this and many other reasons. But in spite of being a concerned citizen and as apprehensive as any American in troubled times, Byron looked at the President with an entirely different focus, a completely unique frame of reference.
He had, at one time, been Wing Liang’s English teacher. And, as for many young people, he’d been the student’s confidant even after the young man had gone on to high school. He was the one and only person the young, thoughtful boy had confided in when his father was dying of cancer. And Byron Hoffstedder was the singular soul the boy turned to when, rather than dying, his father baffled the doctors by transforming from a patient laced with carcinomas to one showing no signs whatsoever of the disease. And he did it in one day. “Mr. Hoffstedder” was the one trusted agent to whom Wing had uttered the only explanation he could fathom for the miraculous recovery. And the “explanation” was his little sister’s some-times friend, Johnnie.
___________________________________________________________________
Cheyenne, Wyoming ended up being the perfect stop for the night with Johnnie’s most recent re-vector for her journey. After a quick check with MapQuest, she’d determined that the oasis of a town was almost exactly halfway between Elko and Omaha. Although she certainly could have dealt with longer traveling days than the seven to nine hours she’d established, she was in no hurry and thought that this more conservative pace may be therapeutic as she adjusted from a life of regimen to one of… well, to another life. She also saw no point in forcing Betsy into hours of overtime since the dog was probably unaccustomed to extended sedentary periods. Her cohort had shown no sign of stress and didn’t complain, but Johnnie did not want to press the issue as they became accustomed to one another’s company. Besides, Betsy was her unwitting practice case in interpersonal relations and the pup was a willing participant by all indications.
During significant life transitions, one often swings within a gray area between the old and new worlds. Residing in that gray for a brief time, the 13-year veteran decided to stay at the lodging facilities at the air base in Cheyenne and even took the exit from I-80 onto I-25N toward F.E. Warren Air Force Base. She drove onto the off-ramp from I-25 which would take her to the base’s main gate and unconsciously fumbled in her purse for her military identification card when reality struck. This was not her place anymore. She could only characterize the sweeping feeling as “homesickness,” and she pulled into a small parking lot outside the installation so as to avoid the one-way drive to the guarded entrance.
She parked next to the small brick building marked, “Visitor’s Center.” Betsy immediately took this as a sign that it was a pee-stop, and grunted in her less than graceful effort to push into a sitting position.
“Hold on, Girl,” Johnnie said, reaching to her right and patting the half-sleeping dog’s head. She wasn’t looking at Betsy, however; she was looking at the three huge looming white missiles emerging from the grass just inside the base gate. They were static displays, of course, but whereas every base she’d experienced sported “airplanes on a stick,” this was the
first time she saw this particular scene and it was an ominous representation of nuclear weaponry. This was an area in which Johnnie had never served, but it was yet another jarring reminder that she was no longer a member of the Air Force team; not a key part of something bigger than herself.
But there was something else about this scene. Something that had less to do with her military connection and more to do with dark foreboding to which she was reluctantly becoming accustomed. She amended her thought from seconds before, the one that she was no longer a part of something “bigger than herself.” Deep down in an area yet unexcavated, she knew she was part of some other thing… but what it was, was either unknown to her or… unaccepted?
“Shake it off, Dr. Dumbass,” she scolded herself, looking away from the mighty images which filled her windshield. After conferring with the internet option of her smart phone, she located a pet friendly La Quinta Inn (not Lodge) on a Lincolnway Boulevard, not too far from the base.
Johnnie felt a small smile as she followed the disembodied GPS voice Jason had dubbed Shonda, and she realized that her motel was not only very close by, but that nothing was too far from anything else in Cheyenne. It was a small, but charming old town.
The state capitol building was close and in her immediate view as she headed into the town, and in a matter of a few minutes, she’d seen most of the downtown which silently echoed a feeling of the old west. The saying on the burg’s welcome sign had been, “Living the Legend,” accompanied by Cheyenne’s signature silhouette of a cowboy riding a wild bronco. As she scanned the small tidy streets and old buildings, the air of a different era was everywhere. There were even huge colorfully painted cowboy boots on various street corners…they were strangely beautiful; Johnnie appreciated their uniqueness, but inwardly hoped there were no giant cowboys lurking around that belonged to the towering footwear.
The focal point of the town was a beautiful historic train depot with a couple of the monumental boots in the surrounding stone plaza, and Johnnie was pleased to see that her motel was only a matter of blocks from the landmark. She decided then and there that she and Betsy would take a walk after checking into their room.
Two hours later, fed, rested and as settled as they could be in their home-for-a-night, Johnnie tried unsuccessfully to contact both men to whom she owed calls, leaving messages in the continuing games of phone tag.
Everyone she’d run into from the La Quinta staff to the small diner where she’d had dinner was so friendly and warm, she felt as if she belonged and was eager to experience more of that rare feeling. She found herself reasoning a bit too long with the wary Betsy that the leash was a necessary evil if they were to take an evening stroll. She was wary herself, considering the last time she’d gone on such an excursion she’d ended up in the company of Shirley and Colombo. But somehow, she felt safe here…and unreasonably saw Betsy as a sort of guardian against more unwanted and yet unveiled events.
Having come to an understanding which resulted in loosening Betsy’s collar and a promise that she could do the leading, the unlikely pair walked down the street slightly after dark. Johnnie was now as completely unfettered by the dog’s missing leg as the dog was herself. The way she saw it, she had a far more significant anomaly than Betsy, you just couldn’t see hers; the dog had nothing to hide, and that, Johnnie envied.
They made their way to the train depot and Johnnie sat on a bench in the large lighted stone plaza with Betsy at her feet, leaning on her left knee. Although she knew the big girl couldn’t sit without leaning, the contact and growing attachment touched her, nonetheless.
She noted that people actually spoke to others in passing in this town. And she liked it. Unlike less personal communities where folks not only ignored others, but certainly didn’t comment on things that could be considered questionable, here almost everyone commented on Betsy – speaking either directly to the grinning dog, or to Johnnie. It was neither unkind or unnecessarily nosy – just, well, neighborly. While she could not have explained it, Johnnie could feel the oldness of the town; it was almost ghostly, but oddly welcoming rather than eerie.
After exiting a pub and brewery located at the end of the sprawling old Depot building, a couple strolled across the walkway and joined Johnnie on the bench, speaking with her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The pair was probably in their fifties and struck her as ordinary people, extraordinarily down to earth. The man noted that they must be passing through, gesturing toward Betsy, saying he would have probably remembered her if they’d previously crossed paths. Johnnie confirmed that they were indeed “foreigners,” only staying for the night. They congenially told Johnnie about Cheyenne, its history as related to the railroad … and invited her to return later in the year for Cheyenne Frontier Days. They proudly told her that it was the largest outdoor rodeo in the country, and an experience of a lifetime. The man winked at her, telling her this was the real thing. When they stood to go on about their evening, they both shook Johnnie’s hand, again insisting that she and her furry friend return when they had more time.
It had been a perfect evening and Johnnie didn’t want to push her luck. While the last unworldly incident she was actually aware of was the train station event in Nevada, she couldn’t ignore the constant gnawing on the sides of her brain…and inside her gut. Each tiny bite represented something substantial about her own life that she couldn’t grasp or see, although could definitely feel it, and she was reluctantly accepting that “it” wasn’t as new as she’d initially thought. But she simply couldn’t articulate a thing beyond that.
Tonight was untainted, but she hadn’t been able to shake the sensation she’d had upon waking this morning…the indelible impression that something had happened in Elko, but she didn’t know what.
They made their way up the street to the La Quinta, Betsy leading her woman in a gait that now seemed more like a swagger than a hobble; one watching might wonder who was the caretaker of whom and Johnnie would not have challenged the quandary.
Once back in the room, Johnnie turned on the television for background noise, if nothing else. The Nick at Night channel was already selected and somehow she was only mildly surprised to hear Eddie Arnold’s clear voice belt out the theme of the next show,
“Greeeeeen Acres is the place to be! Farm living is the life for me! Land spreadin’ out so far and wide…”
Helpless not to join in, Johnnie wagged a finger at the unimpressed Betsy as she half sang, half directed, “Keep Manhattan, give me that countryside….”
She grabbed her phone to initiate another round of James-calls when a local commercial featuring the mayor of Cheyenne filled the screen. She stopped, phone still poised in midair and head cocked, as she focused on the easy but serious face addressing her, this time in the form of a million pixels. The male half of the couple she’d sat with at the Depot now spoke to her from the flat dimension of the TV screen. Although slightly more official in deportment, he communicated in a just-as-down-to-earth manner about local initiatives as he had spoken to her about Betsy roughly an hour earlier. Part of Johnnie was impressed that the couple never let on as to “who they were” during their very relaxed chat, reinforcing her favorable opinion of this town.
The other part of Johnnie wondered if the waves of oddities in her life were part a world class game of coincidental events where, perhaps, the laughing universe was the other player. Or, was the universe, or destiny…or some other greater consciousness trying to corral her attention in less than subtle, worldly ways? The latter would make even the visit to this quaint town a pawn in an unseen strategy. Still staring at the screen, but seeing nothing, she haltingly accepted that while both options were unlikely, one, in particular seemed to be at play.
She was well past the realm of coincidence, and whatever “it” was, it had her attention. _________________________________________________________________________
On his way out of town, Reno-bound, Byron had indeed located Shirl
ey and Colombo outside the train station. While the tattered man’s outward appearance and general aroma were indicators of his homeless state, his demeanor certainly was not. Regardless of his circumstances, the man was naturally buoyant and like Byron, didn’t know a stranger. He was also remarkably well versed, communicating with perfect grammar, diction and confidence. Given more time, Byron would have loved to hear this man’s life story, not just the single tale in which Johnnie Carter was the main character. In many ways, he reminded Byron of the old wizard, Dumbledore, in the Harry Potter movies… only this version lived at the mercy of the streets rather than in the protected halls of Hogwarts.
Anyone passing by may have wondered about the two very different men on a street bench in the midst of a lively conversation, but both were seemingly unaware of the world around them, mindful only of the spirited Colombo who incessantly nudged at Byron’s hands and pockets, volleying for a snack.
Shirley’s recount of his dog’s salvation at the hands of the blonde girl was remarkably in-sync with Jason’s third or fourth-hand version of the story. His whiskered face exhibited absolutely no doubt whatsoever that she had not only saved the dying dog, but had reconstituted his obliterated back leg. When Byron presented Sergeant Carter’s photo, the man’s eyes shone as he gently touched the image.
“Ah yes, that’s her! Look, Colombo. This is the one. She saved you and thereby, she saved me.” He then stroked his scruffy face, bright eyes peering at Byron through bushy, unkempt eyebrows.
“And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything. ….And, it finds unlikely saviors in the hands of running maidens…”
Hearing Shakespeare from the lips of the sage hobo was rattling enough to Byron…but something about the added line was most mesmerizing. Where had he heard that term before?
He thanked Shirley and Colombo, leaving town directly from the station. While he could have spoken with the bus station staff for corroboration of the story, he actually found the old man quite credible and also knew that police blotter entries of the events would be a matter of public record if he desired to further validate the event. At this point, and for his purposes, he didn’t think it necessary to dig any further.
The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy) Page 18
