Malsum Pass

by Forrest, Kimberly

  Why had Marisol kept her past such a secret? Why lie about not knowing who Tara’s father was? What had happened that she would deny her own father a chance to meet his granddaughter? All the answers had gone into the grave with her mother.

  She took a deep breath for calm and forced herself to read the letters in order. There were letters at Christmas and birthdays that included gift cards that her mother had never even bothered to open, there was a letter that talked about a lady in town that had expressed an interest in him and he wondered if Marisol would mind if he dated again, and in every letter he practically begged her to send word of Tara. The final letter, Tara was glad to see mentioned nothing of medical problems, but she was angry for her grandfather when he wrote of his deep hurt and resignation that Marisol was never going to write back and he would never know his granddaughter. He went on to write that it was too painful to go to the mailbox day after day waiting for a letter that would never come, so he was not going to write anymore. He would still be there, if she called, but he couldn’t keep putting his heart through the torment anymore.

  Tara wanted to pick up her phone and immediately call him, but none of the letters included his phone number and there were no scraps of paper in the box that may have had the number written. Knowing her mother, it had been memorized so she had seen no need to write it down anywhere. If she had added his number to the contacts in her cell phone, Tara would probably never know as it had been in the purse that was stolen when her mom was killed.

  She knew her mother had contacted him at least once. It had been the same night she had found out Matty wasn’t her real dad. Tara had been in her bedroom in horrible pain while her mother and Matty were in the living room. Matty was arguing that they needed to take her to the hospital.

  “No hospitals! Stay out of this! She’s my daughter, not yours!” Her mother had screeched.

  “Do you think I fucking give a shit about that right now? I love her and she’s suffering! She needs a doctor, not some voodoo shaman! Your so-called herbal remedies can’t fix this, Marisol. Christ! She needs real help and real medicine. You either get her to a hospital or I will!”

  “Let me just make a call; please. I know someone who may be able to help her.” Her mother had said. Then Tara had heard a door slam. She had to assume it was Matty storming out since a few minutes later she heard her mom say “Dad, I need your help.” Her mother must have continued the conversation further away from Tara’s bedroom because she heard very little after that.

  Tara shook herself out of that somewhat disturbing memory, picked up her phone, and called information for L.J. Mason in Malsum Pass. They gave her a number for the only Mason listed – a Lawrence Mason but the number simply rang. Apparently her grandfather didn’t have voice mail, but the man had written letters of continued support and love for twenty-five years and never received a response. She was damn well going to find him!

  Later that night she told Matty what she’d found out and he completely agreed that she needed to go to this Malsum Pass to see him. So she’d taken her flight home to New York, unpacked her bag just to repack it with clean clothes, printed out directions to this tiny town that boasted a population of less than two-hundred residents, threw in her laptop and phone charger, and was out the door for the six hour drive.

  Now, already six hours into her trip due to stops (and weak engines), she was holding her cell phone aloft waiting for bars to appear. “Come on, you stupid phone, one tiny bar, you can do it!”… Apparently it can’t. No GPS signal and no cell service. She was beginning to wonder if she had completely left civilization behind. Matty would simply have to wait until she arrived to get an update.

  Tara carefully looked over the directions she had printed, took a few moments to amuse herself watching some chipmunks skittering about frantically hoarding their stash, gave one last stretch to her back and then climbed back in her car. She was really close now, in fact, according to the directions, the turn off for the town should be about half way down the other side of the mountain.

  Pulling back out onto the road, she noticed right away that she was now heading down. Her car had no problem picking up speed, so she turned on her playlist and started singing along with some of her favorites.

  A few miles down she saw the sign on the right: ‘Sharp Turn Ahead’ even decreased speed a bit in anticipation, but when she saw the corner, she drew in a sharp breath and slammed on her brakes. Loose gravel had her sliding to a stop on the opposite shoulder and she said a little prayer of thanks that no cars had been coming (and that her rather full bladder hadn’t let go).

  “Holy shit, when they say sharp turn, they mean it! Christ! They would have done better with U-Turn ahead!”

  Tara took a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart and looked around. Then she saw it just ahead. If she hadn’t come to a screeching halt she would have missed it entirely. A dirt road turn off on the right with a hand painted wooden sign that read Malsum Pass.

  Chapter Two

  Tara definitely felt like she was in a different world as she drove slowly down the main road. All of the buildings were far spaced with green lawns and shrubs or trees; most of them wood construction with pretty flower boxes under the windows and white picket fences. Some had wooden signs out front that declared they were businesses rather than homes – Malsum Pass Town Offices, Cedars Bed and Breakfast, Flora’s Hair Design – no strip malls or billboards for this town. Tara didn’t even see a traffic light!

  Spotting a sign for a diner, she quickly pulled into a parking spot amidst all the pick-up trucks and a few SUV’s in hopes of finding a restroom and then information about her grandfather. Grabbing her purse she got out of her car and pushed through the door. A cheery bell rang as she entered and all ten or so patrons of the diner turned to look at her – and stare. She felt like she should be in one of those movies where someone drags the needle off a record.

  The silence was rather creepy as she looked down at herself to make sure she was tidy. No coffee stains; good. Her breasts were still contained in her bra within the white, long-sleeved, V-neck tee; check, and as far as she could tell without making it obvious, the fly of her faded jeans was zipped.

  She mentally stiffened her spine and smiled. “Hi! I, um, I’m just going to take a seat” she pointed, “right over there.” She said to the room at large as she made her way to the counter seating.

  A middle aged woman with dark hair pulled up in a top knot and sharp features came out from the back, tucking her order book into the pocket of her white apron and then pushed a pencil into her hair. She looked up and spotted Tara before coming to a halt. She stared for a moment before shaking it off and then smiling. “What can I get for you, honey?”

  “I’ll start with a coffee, and I’d like to see a menu, but can I use your restroom first? It’s been a long drive.” Tara said with a smile.

  “It’s right back there, honey.” The waitress pointed and Tara stopped herself from running to the door. She felt like she was going to burst.

  Soon feeling more comfortable with an empty bladder, Tara examined her face in the mirror as she washed her hands. Her mom had grown up in this town; maybe everyone was seeing a resemblance that Tara never had? Of course, Marisol had left over twenty-eight years ago so maybe the town simply wasn’t use to strangers and stared at anyone new who came through. It wasn’t like Malsum Pass was just off an interstate after all. A person had to really want to be here to even find it.

  She checked her appearance one last time to make sure she was tidy before returning to her stool at the counter. The waitress immediately set down a heavy mug of coffee.

  “I hope regular is okay, honey. No one drinks decaf, so we’ve stopped ordering it.” She said as she set down a spoon, a few creamer tubs and pushed the container of sugar packets Tara’s way.

  “Regular is perfect, thank you.” Tara began stirring cream and sugar into her coffee but noticed the waitress hadn’t moved away, so she picked up one of the men
us standing between a ketchup bottle and a napkin dispenser. She looked over the lunch offerings and quickly ordered the cheeseburger basket.

  Instead of moving away to give the order to the cook, the waitress simply shouted it out over her shoulder and then returned her attention to Tara. “So what brings you into town, honey?”

  Tara took a sip of her coffee, right to business then; it was probably for the best. “I’m looking for Lawrence Mason.”

  “L.J.? He must be doing a custom job for you?” The waitress asked grinning. For some reason, she seemed relieved which struck Tara as odd.

  “No, actually, he’s my grandfather.”

  And just like that, conversation in the diner once again came to an abrupt halt. Silence – the saying ‘you could hear a pin drop’ definitely applied. Tara looked around nervously. This place was starting to unsettle her with its Mayberry meets Deliverance vibe. She should have just agreed that her grandfather was doing whatever custom work the waitress had assumed and left it at that. Stupid mouth – consult brain before speaking! She cleared her throat. “If you point me in the right direction, I’m sure I can find him.”

  “Nonsense, honey!” the waitress, smiled again but her eyes had a rather calculating glint that Tara didn’t like. Then she snapped her head around to one of the booths toward the back. “Bernie! Head on over to The Keg and tell L.J. he has a visitor. Bring him here.”

  A man in a trucker’s cap with a long white beard – who Tara assumed was the aforementioned Bernie - scrambled out of his booth and practically ran for the door.

  Tara took another sip of her coffee before asking “The keg?”

  “The Powder Keg is your granddaddy’s shop. He restores old guns, makes custom rifle stocks, that sort of thing. He’s done a pretty good business since he put up a web site for orders.” The waitress stepped back to grab Tara’s cheeseburger basket off the ledge and then placed it in front of her. Still she hovered. Tara was wishing one of the other patrons would flag her down for a refill, or their check, or something.

  Tara wanted to kick herself. Her grandfather had a web site! Why had she not Googled him? Because in her mind she had pictured a slightly stooped, kind, elderly man who possibly got around with a walker. Not someone who owned a custom shop with a web site. She sighed, dumped some ketchup on her cheeseburger, and concentrated on ignoring the overly attentive waitress and the low buzz of conversation from the other patrons that she somehow knew was about her. She’d eat fast, grab her grandfather as soon as he came through the door, and hopefully find a private spot to talk with him.

  She had just stuffed her mouth with a huge bite of burger when the annoying waitress said “I take it you don’t know your granddaddy.” Tara continued to chew, really hoping someone or something would interrupt. The woman continued, filling the silence. “I mean, if you knew him you would have known about The Keg, right?”

  Tara swallowed, took a sip of coffee and then dabbed her mouth with a napkin. She leveled a look at the waitress and decided to be blunt. “Look, I appreciate that you’re curious, but I’d just like to eat in peace until my grandfather arrives.” She gave a smile to try to soften the blow and then returned her attention to her food.

  The waitress let out a little huff, but finally left the counter area to see to her other customers. Tara took one more bite of her burger and then tossed it back into the basket with the fries. There was nothing wrong with it – in fact it tasted really good, but her stomach was knotting up with nerves. No, she didn’t know her grandfather. Aside from the stack of letters she’d read, she knew nothing about him. She hadn’t grown up with stories of her mother’s childhood experiences, hadn’t had visits or phone calls (not that he hadn’t tried), she’d never even seen a picture of him, for that matter he had probably never seen a picture of her. He wouldn’t even recognize her. How depressing was that?

  The bell over the door chimed and Tara gripped the counter until her knuckles showed white. “He’s on his way.” She heard Bernie tell the waitress and she expelled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

  “Did you see any Pierces between here and there?” She heard the waitress ask, glad that the woman had moved on to a topic that didn’t concern her.

  “Nope, we’re good.” Bernie responded and he settled back into his booth to stare at her.

  Tara really wished she had a glass of water, but she didn’t want to give the waitress another excuse to hover and pry. She heard the bell ding again and took a deep breath preparing to turn and get her first look at her grandfather.

  “Bernie said I had a visitor, Lucy?” He had a booming voice. That was the first thing that registered right before she turned and saw him: Salt and pepper hair cut short, a well-trimmed beard that was heavily streaked with gray except for a stripe on either side of his chin that was snow white. His face was tan and craggy with plenty of laugh lines around his eyes. He was tall, broad shouldered and barrel chested – strong. There was nothing about this man that was stooped or feeble. If she ran to him right now and threw herself into his arms she had no doubt he would be able to catch her and hug her back until she felt like her ribs would crack, and oh, how she wanted to do just that. Reality though was that if she ran at him he’d probably think she was some deranged lunatic attacking him and want to call the police.

  Silence had once again fallen over the diner as everyone focused their attention on her and her grandfather as she stood up. She held for a moment to make sure her wobbly knees would support her and then walked to him. His attention was fixed on her face, first in confusion then with such a look of hope in his eyes that Tara wanted to burst into tears. He did recognize her! She had to clear her throat twice to work past the lump that had formed. “Hi, Grandpa.”

  “Tara? Oh God,” He said, and then she was in his arms, getting that big bear hug that she had just imagined moments before. It felt so right, she never wanted to let him go. He smelled like saw dust, oil, and Old Spice and it was the best smell ever.

  He stepped back from her, but maintained a hold on her upper arms while he searched for something over her head. “Did your mother come with you?”

  It was a question she had been prepared for – she knew he wouldn’t be aware of Marisol’s death and that she’d have to tell him, but she hated to spoil this moment with such sadness. “Is there someplace private we can go to talk?” She asked. He gave a sharp nod, slid his hand down to hers to grasp it, and then started to turn to leave.

  “Just let me pay my bill.” She said, but he didn’t let go of her hand.

  “Lucy!” he boomed. “Put my granddaughter’s bill on my tab.”

  Lucy the nosy waitress practically ran to her grandfather’s side. “Aren’t you hungry, L.J.? I’d be more than happy to clear one of the back booths; you two can have a nice little private chat and catch up while I put in an order for your usual.”

  “Ha! Private my ass!” then he turned to Tara. “Nothing is private in this god damn town. Let’s go, sweetheart.” And Tara was more than happy to follow him out the door.

  Chapter Three

  When Tara approached her grandfather’s shop, the first thing she saw was a thick wooden sign suspended above the door in the shape of a barrel with the name of the store burned into the wood like a brand and covered with a glossy coat of lacquer that made the wood shine. The front section of The Powder Keg was obviously set up to be a store; hunting apparel was displayed on racks, a selection of boots for hunting and fishing as well as standard work boots and winter boots lined one wall. There were waders and all sorts of fishing paraphernalia against another wall, but the prominent display was rifles – many of them with intricately carved stocks. Tara ran her hands carefully over a few of them, a twelve point buck, a bear reared back with teeth in full detail, and one that she particularly loved: a beautifully detailed wolf, head proudly lifted. “These are gorgeous, Grandpa!”

  “Thank you, I do custom signage too. Most of the signs in Malsum Pass are my work.
” he said with a proud smile.

  “You did the sign out front? It’s so nice. You do great work, Grandpa.” She said with a smile.

  “Do you shoot?” He asked motioning with his head to the rifle stock she was still touching with her fingertips.

  Tara smiled back and shook her head slightly. “I’ve never shot a rifle, but when mom found out I was staying in New York after I got my degree, she and Matty came to look at my apartment. She took one look at the area it was in and dragged me to a gun store. She bought me a Rueger, signed me up for a gun safety course, and got me a gift certificate to the firing range so that I could practice – it was pretty fun, actually so I continue to go. I enjoy it.”

  Her grandfather shook his head and his eyes looked glassy like he was holding back tears. “I didn’t even know you went to college. That’s something a grandfather should know.”

  Tara took his callused hand and held it. “Hey, that’s not your fault, okay? I saw your letters. I know you tried. That’s what prompted me to come to you.” She watched as he blinked back the tears before they could fall, tipped his head back, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a deep breath.

  Once Tara saw he had himself back in control, she continued. “I went to NYU – Tisch School of the Arts. Now you’re a grandfather in the know.” She finished with a grin and a wink.

  He returned the smile and nodded. “Let me just lock the front and we’ll go back to the workshop so I can really be ‘in the know’” he said making air quotations with his fingers and making Tara chuckle. “I want to hear everything.”

  The workshop was brightly lit, and like her grandfather, smelled of saw dust and oil. There was a large stack of lumber piled against the wall, a pot belly stove that was cold at the moment sat in a corner on bricks that would keep the shop toasty in the winter, and an enormous work bench with work lights clamped on the edges, and his current projects in various stages of completion held in vices. Tools were everywhere – some tacked neatly to the wall, some in the drawers of the large red tool cabinet, and a few that he had been using sat on the work bench.