by Shawn Inmon
Finally, Earl said, “So what’s next, then?”
“Oh, I suppose I need to get up on the roof and make sure all the flashing is ready for another winter.”
Earl shook his head. “No. I mean, what’s next for you?”
“Oh. Well, that question’s a lot harder.”
“It always is.”
“I guess I don’t have a real plan yet. All my life, I wanted to be a police officer. Now that I know that’s out, I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do.”
“I know you’ll be okay financially. You two will have the house, and it’s paid off. You’ve got your benefits from the army, too. So, you’ll never starve. Still, a man needs something to do. A reason to get out of bed in the morning.”
“Any ideas for me?” Scott was genuinely curious.
“None that are of much use. Have you thought of going to college for something? You’ve got your GI Bill to help you out with that.”
“I was never much of a student. I know I need something, though, you’re right.”
“Find something you love. Me, I loved working with my hands. I enjoyed going to work every day, finding new challenges. If you’re lucky enough to find something like that and someone you look forward to coming home to every night, you’ve got the world beat. That’s what I had.”
Scott noticed a book open on Earl’s lap, in place of his usual newspaper. “What are you reading?”
“Not much. Just picking up a few of the books I’ve read over the years and looking at them again. This one is In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote.”
“Never heard of it.”
“You’re young. There’s a whole lot of things you’ve never heard of. Doesn’t mean they’re not worthwhile.”
TWO WEEKS LATER, EARL Bell was dead. At the very end, he smiled at Cheryl and Scott and said, “I’ll miss you both, but don’t fret about me. This is good. I’m ready to go.”
For many previous lives, that time period between Earl dying and Christmas was a waiting game. Scott was letting time pass so that Cheryl could tell him she was getting married and he could tell her that he was moving on. Now, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. He could let the two of them move out into their own place while he stayed in this house, but that felt wrong. Three bedrooms called out for a family, not a young bachelor.
By the time the inevitable Christmas conversation came, he had decided to move out and start fresh. Cheryl argued with him and asked him to stay, but he had no interest in sharing a house with newlyweds.
He moved into a small apartment on the edge of town while they were on their honeymoon. He picked up a few sticks of old furniture and some dishes at Goodwill and was mostly settled in before they returned. The only thing he took from the house was his clothes, his Purple Heart, which Earl had given back to him just before he passed, and the stack of books sitting on the table next to Earl’s chair.
If they were good enough for him, they’re damn sure good enough for me. Can’t see much of a reason to get a television set, so I’ve gotta have something to pass the time.
His first night in his new place, he wandered around, lost despite the cramped surroundings. He finally settled on the couch and plucked the top book off the stack he had brought with him. Again, it was In Cold Blood.
He cracked the book open and realized it was the first thing he had read since he had graduated from high school years earlier. The next time he looked up, two hours had passed. The story of the destruction of the Clutter family resonated with him—the randomness, the loss of an entire family, all done for almost no reason at all.
When Scott glanced at the clock again, he saw it was after midnight. He hadn’t even bothered to make up his bed yet. Stretching out on the ugly green couch he had just bought, he slept.
When he woke up, Scott realized how unequipped he was. He may have had a frying pan, but he didn’t have eggs. He had a battered old coffee pot, but no coffee.
Better go to the store first thing.
Then, his mind drifted to where he had left off in the book the night before. When he had stopped reading, the two killers had just been apprehended and brought back to Kansas to stand trial.
If only the Clutters had known it was coming, or if someone had been there to protect them, none of it would have happened.
A sudden thought hit Scott, and it stopped him dead in his tracks.
Someone who knew what was coming. Maybe someone like me.
The idea hit him so strongly, he had to sit down.
Nothing I can do for the Clutters, of course. They’ve been dead since I was a little kid. But what if someone that kept starting their life over and over again knew when something was going to happen? I could stop those bad things before they happened.
Chapter Twelve
As Scott wheeled a cart down the aisle of the grocery store, he turned things over in his mind.
Not too much I can do in this life. I never managed to live past 1975, and I wasn’t paying attention to what happened in the world. Hell, I wasn’t paying attention to anything except where my next fix was coming from. But, what if I did pay attention this lifetime? Took notes. Did research. Taught myself to remember things. Then, when I started over again, I could be ready.
Scott didn’t watch where he was going and his cart clipped the edge of a toilet paper display, sending it tumbling to the ground. Embarrassed, he began restocking them haphazardly back on the shelf.
He didn’t want any other mishaps while he was on this trip so he focused on his grocery shopping, then his driving. But as soon as he got home and got the shopping put away, he focused on the idea once more.
I could live a normal life, but keep tabs on bad things that happen. I could read more books, magazines and newspapers. I could put together a list of horrible things that happen over the next several decades. Maybe I can change them. If someone had done that for us, maybe Mom would still be alive.
For the first time since he had been wounded, Scott felt excitement, anticipation—a purpose.
It’s just a question of where I want to spend this life. Here? It would be nice to be close to Cheryl. Maybe be here when she has kids and be Uncle Scott to them.
He tried to picture that, but failed.
Of course, I could always come back for visits. That’s probably better. Cheryl’s got Mike and her own life now. It would be good to get out and see the country a little, without trying to kill myself.
As soon as the six-month lease on his apartment was up, Scott donated all the furniture he had bought back to the same thrift store.
He stored a few belongings in Earl’s old workshop and once again limited himself to what he could carry in his backpack.
Hitting the road this time was different from the twenty or so times he had done it before. Then, he was trying to lose himself. Now, he was looking for a home. He rode his thumb south, but soon found that the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida were too humid for his tastes. Still, he didn’t give up easily and made it as far south as he could. He caught a ride in Miami that took him across the Florida Keys all the way to Key West, home to Hemingway and the occasional tropical storm. He loved the sunsets, being on the water, and the laid back attitude everyone had. But in the end, he had to admit he wasn’t cut out for waking up to temperatures pushing ninety every day.
Hitchhiking north again, Scott caught a ride on an empty freight car heading west. He hopped off in Texas and spent a few months wandering around cowboy country.
He was in no hurry and was happy watching the calendar pages flip as he explored the country.
Texas was a big state with friendly people. Eventually, he realized he wasn’t going to find a place in Texas that felt like home and he moved on again.
Southern California had perfect weather, but he didn’t recognize the people there as his own tribe. After a year of doing oil changes and minor tune ups for a small garage, the steady drumbeat of cloudless, warm weather wore on him. He discovered he liked a little variety to hi
s seasons.
He trekked north and wandered the Pacific Northwest. He chose to bypass Middle Falls—which wasn’t hard to do—because he wasn’t ready to face the accompanying memories. Eventually, he crossed into Washington State and settled for a season in a nice town on a plateau that called itself The Gateway to Mt. Rainier. That season turned out to be the rainy one, which the locals joked started in early September and ended in late August. Those few days in between were glorious, but they weren’t enough for Scott. He moved on again.
Eastern Washington was as desolate as the western side of the state was green. Living among rolling, endlessly brown hills held no appeal.
He set his sights on the Dakotas. North Dakota, in particular, is a state that is easy to miss. It’s not an easy state to pass through on your way to somewhere else, unless you’re heading for the Canadian border. Aside from that, you’ve got to plan to go there. There were things he loved about North Dakota. It was an easy state to get lost in. Again, the people were wonderful and everyone respected your privacy. One of the books he had read from Earl’s stash told the story of the Norwegian settlers who had homesteaded the area. Having seen the area first hand, he developed a new respect for anyone who could scratch a living from that inhospitable land without modern equipment.
He kept moving.
Scott arrived in the upper peninsula of Michigan during the bicentennial celebration of 1976. He thought he might have found his place to settle down. It had the green beauty he had seen in Washington, Oregon, and Idaho, but didn’t rain nearly as much.
The Upper Peninsula took up almost a third of the land area of Michigan, but had only three percent of the population. That suited Scott fine. The Great Lakes were a bonus. There was never a shortage of things to do—hunting, fishing, hiking, and snowmobiling. He loved his time there in August, September, and October.
One long winter’s stay in the hamlet of Iron River convinced him it was not where he wanted to put down roots. Three hundred inches of snowfall that year encouraged him to move on again.
At that point, he had been on the road for three years, so he took a side trip back to Evansville. Where Scott’s roots were shallow, Cheryl was putting her own roots deep in Indiana soil. She was pregnant with her first baby.
Scott spent the summer in Evansville. He worked on projects in Earl’s basement woodshop. He was able to be at the hospital when Cheryl and Mike welcomed Andrea Nicole into the world. By fall, he had grown antsy again.
He got his grandfather’s old atlas out and laid it on the kitchen table. He traced his finger along the route he had followed the previous three years. It formed a large oval around the USA, but had skipped one part—the northeast.
Scott hated goodbyes, so he woke up one morning before the sun was up, left a note on the dining room table, and started walking. He walked to the bus depot, which felt like it completed a cycle in his life. He rode the Greyhound east and then north. The Finger Lakes region of upstate New York were tempting, but he was enjoying being on the move once more.
Continuing east, Scott finally stepped off the bus in the little town of Waitsfield, Vermont.
It feels like I’ve walked onto the set of a Hollywood movie.
It was a picturesque New England town, with a covered bridge, a quaint downtown area, and charm by the truckload.
I can’t put my finger on it, but this feels like home.
Chapter Thirteen
Before long, Scott discovered that Waitsfield had lots of snow, cold temperatures and limited daylight during the winter months. These were things that had bothered him elsewhere, but as his sister had once told him, “when you know, you know.” He never regretted the decision.
He rented a furnished room in a boarding house on his second day in town and stayed there temporarily. Eventually, his newfound love of reading led him to something more permanent. He had been haunting a used bookstore called Twice Told Tales most every day, when the lady behind the counter said, “You must love to read.”
“I do now. Never did much of it until the last few years. My grandfather got me started again.”
“I haven’t seen you around until the last few weeks. New in town?”
This was a standard small-town question. Are you from away?
“I’ve been traveling around since I got out of the service. Looking for a place to settle. I think this is it.”
“Found a place already?”
Scott looked at the woman. She appeared to be somewhere in her forties. Short, a little round, with hair gone mostly to gray. Her expression wasn’t unfriendly, but it wasn’t cheerful, either.
“Just staying at Mrs. Carvill’s boarding house until I can find something more permanent. Places to rent seem to be hard to find.”
“You’ve just got to know people. Here, put your books on the counter and follow me.” She locked the front door and flipped the paper sign over to read, “Closed,” then led Scott through a curtained area at the back of the shop. “There’s two ways up, including a door from the outside.”
She took a key ring out of her pocket and unlocked the door at the top of the stairs. It opened into a studio apartment with a small kitchen off to one side and an equally small bathroom at the back. The front of the apartment was made up of windows that let in plenty of ambient light.
“Just had my last tenant move out a few days ago. If you don’t mind living above a bookstore...”
“I’ll take it.”
“I’m Greta. I’ll be your landlady, then.” She twisted the key off the ring and placed it in Scott’s open palm. “Seventy-five dollars a month. You can bring it to me in the shop when you move in.”
Scott had an urge to hug her, but she was not an easily-hugged woman. Instead, he offered her his hand and said, “I’m Scott McKenzie. Thank you, Greta. Do you want me to fill out an application?”
She shook her head. “No, you pass my eye test. It’s never let me down. Don’t be the first.”
Scott smiled and said, “I’ll go settle up with Mrs. Carvill and be back here soon. Thank you so much.”
If he had been physically able, he might have skipped down the stairs to the street. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he had begun to feel at home.
Scott spent a happy six months living above the bookstore. He loved how light the apartment was, and the fact that the entire building smelled like old books. Waitsfield was a small town—a population of less than two thousand people in 1977—but living right in town still felt a little too close quarters for him. In the fall leaf-peepers and other tourists made the place feel more crowded than it was.
In the early spring of 1978, he was sitting in an old armchair in front of the bank of windows reading a book about the flora and fauna of New England when there was a knock on his door.
He opened the door and said, “Hello, Greta, what’s brought you up from the store?”
Greta Gnagy looked at him shrewdly. “I like you, Scott.”
Her straightforwardness made him laugh a little. “I like you too, Greta!”
“I have someone else down in the shop, looking for a place to live.”
Scott tried to guess where she was going with this line of conversation, but failed.
“They want a little place in town, just like this.”
“You’re not kicking me out, are you?”
“I’d no more kick you out than bite off the end of my nose. But, you mentioned once that you would like to find a place a little ways out of town if you could, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but those places aren’t easy to find. Everyone wants to come to this part of Vermont and live like Thoreau.”
“They’d have to get on I-93 and drive south a few hours to do that, but I understand what you mean.”
Mental note: Don’t make a literary joke with a woman who owns a bookstore.
“Here’s why I’m asking. My brother passed away a few months back.”
“My condolences.”
“Thank you.
He is missed. He left his little house out in the woods to me, and I haven’t decided what to do with it. I thought about selling it, but I think I’d need to put too much into fixing it up to make it worth it. So, I’m wondering if you’d like to trade your little place here for that little cabin in the woods.”
“Yes. I’ll take it.”
“Don’t be so hasty. It needs a lot of work.”
“I understand. I’ll take it.”
“It’s only a small place, one bedroom. My brother was old and infirm for quite some time, so he hadn’t been able to maintain it.”
“How many different ways are you going to make me say I’ll take it?”
“Good enough. It’s still got all Henry’s furnishings in it. Would you be willing to move in as-is? If you would, I’ll rent it to you for the same amount I’m renting you this place.”
“Please don’t make me say I’ll take it again. If you’ve got a few boxes in your storeroom, I can be packed and ready to move this evening. Would you be willing to give me a lift in your truck and show me where it is?”
“Come on and get those boxes. I’ll tell the young woman she can have this place tomorrow. I’ll close the shop at five, and give you a ride. You can sleep out there tonight, if you want.”
Greta hadn’t oversold the place. It was truly a bachelor’s house in the woods and it needed work. The whole structure seemed to be canting at a slight angle. The forest was in the process of reclaiming the building for its own, with plants, bushes, and trees encroaching on the walls and porch. The roof was so old that it looked like moss might be the only thing holding it together. Inside, the furniture was old and there was a layer of dust on everything. The door creaked loudly when Greta opened it.
She closed one eye and said, “I didn’t remember it being quite this bad. Are you sure you want it?”
Scott laughed and said, “I love it. It’s perfect. Thank you, Greta. I’ll get to work on it right away.”
