Cadillac Chronicles

by Brett Hartman

  THE RINGING phone was like a defibrillator at his chest. He ran over and grabbed it in the middle of the second ring. He tried to say the word hello in a cool nonchalant way, like he’d been handling important business all day, and here was just another call. But his voice broke with an embarrassing chirp.

  “Hey, Alex, it’s Clyde. We got mostly good news and a little bad.”

  “Really?”

  “Good news is, your father came through, wired the money as soon as he got word.”

  “That’s great.” Alex pictured his dad rushing to the bank on his behalf. It was the exact opposite of being ignored. “What’s the bad news?”

  “We missed the deadline for today. You’ll have to pick up Lester tomorrow. Be there at nine o’clock sharp.”

  “Hope he can handle one more night.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Clyde said. “You’ve done a good job.”

  As Alex hung up the phone, he felt a true sense of achievement. He had actually pulled it off. Soon he’d have to thank his father, but not now. He sprang to his feet and began dancing, not caring if people were to walk by and stare. It was his victory dance. He looked down at his sneakers, which reminded him of a different kind of joy. It occurred to him that life had a variety of joys to offer. Each came with its own color, like the balloons on Dale’s tie. But you didn’t have to wait for your birthday. That was the best part. You could feel this way anytime.

  NEXT MORNING, Alex counted seventeen blocks from motel to county jail. The first blocks were the most nerve-wracking, filled once again with visions of Randy Burgess and handcuffs and a flatbed tow-truck hauling away the Cadillac. He should’ve taken a cab.

  By the time he got to Norwich Street, his nerves had settled to a manageable level. He parked the car near the jail entry. The time was 8:55. He entered a no-frills reception area, turned left past a gumball machine and stood before a Plexiglas window.

  A uniformed woman sat behind a counter. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to pick up Lester Bray.”

  “I’ll need to see your ID,” she said.

  While she examined his permit, he looked back at the Cadillac staring right at them. God, I’m an idiot, he thought. But then she returned the card without comment. She pressed her intercom and announced, “Lester Bray, three-green,” whatever that meant. Then she looked at Alex and said, “Have a seat.”

  A tattered copy of The Brunswick News was spread across two chairs. He organized the mess and read the front page headlines followed by the weather—hot, sunny and humid. He had been thinking of getting a job down here while Lester served out his stint of community service, so he flipped to the classifieds. There wasn’t much available, and almost everything required a high school diploma or at least a GED. But there was an ad for a dishwasher and another for a janitor’s helper, and neither required anything beyond capable limbs. At the risk of getting chastised by the receptionist, he turned away and tore out the area with the two ads and stuffed it into his pocket.

  A distant metal door opened and clanked shut. Then another door much closer in proximity. He stood up and realized he was afraid. He knew that jail changed people, usually not for the better. Maybe the Lester he saw two days ago wouldn’t be the same person now. The door opened, and out came a female guard carrying Lester’s old suitcase.

  “Right here,” Alex said.

  The guard said, “He’s slow, but he’s coming.” She set the bag next to Alex.

  And then it sounded like someone was running a marathon with a snorkel.

  Lester entered the waiting room and turned to Alex. “My God!” he said, gasping. There was a bandage wrapped around his right wrist, but otherwise he looked the same.

  “Hey, Lester.”

  “My God,” the old man repeated. “How on earth did you manage this?”

  “I got help,” Alex said, “lots of it.”

  “Give me your hand.”

  Alex put a trembling hand forward and said, “I’m happy to see you.”

  Lester placed both hands around Alex’s, pulled him close and said, “Happy to see you too, kid.”

  “I’m sorry,” Alex said.

  “For what?”

  “For getting you into this mess.”

  Lester steadied himself against the back of a chair. “Got myself into it. You got nothing to be sorry about. Fact, you ought to be proud.”

  Alex couldn’t help but smile. “I am a little proud.”

  “Good,” Lester said. “Let’s talk about it over breakfast. You’re driving, and you’re buying.”

  Alex lifted the bulky Samsonite and steadied Lester while simultaneously carrying the suitcase to the Cadillac. “What happened there?” Alex was pointing to the bandage on Lester’s wrist. He started the engine and turned up the AC.

  “Had to wear a damn cuff all the way down here—took quite a toll on my ancient skin.”

  Alex nodded and said, “So where to?”

  “Let’s go back to that truck stop where all this foolishness started.”

  Alex had thought his anxiety was done for the day, but it flickered back. “You sure you want to go there?”

  “I am, and I want my stick.”

  Alex pulled away from the parking lot. “It’s behind the seat, where you left it.”

  “Good, I been missing that stick. Of course I’ve been missing you too.”

  “Same here,” Alex said. “It’s been a weird couple of days.”

  “You’re telling me.” Lester shook his head. “So how’d you get the money?”

  “That’s the amazing thing. It was my dad.”

  “Ain’t that something…what made you think to ask him?”

  “I’ve met some good people here.” Alex went on to recount almost everything that had happened over the past two days. He began with his cross-state drive, his tirade against his father and then Dale at the Days Inn. He talked about Clyde at the oxymoronic Freedom Bonds and the enormous breasts of Pamela Blizzard. Then he returned to Dale and finished by way of saying, “I’m trying to learn about forgiveness.”

  “Indeed you are,” Lester said. “Almost makes this whole thing worthwhile.” The Mega Fuel truck stop was just ahead. “Let’s call this our celebration breakfast, kid.”

  Alex liked the way that sounded. His only request was that they not sit at the same table. “Anywhere but there,” he said.

  “Fine, we’ll get a booth.”

  Alex put the stick in Lester’s hand while scanning the parking lot for signs of Randy Burgess. “Hope he’s not here,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t matter if he was,” Lester said. “We won’t cause any trouble.”

  There were a variety of open booths in the restaurant, but Lester walked directly to the one in the corner—same booth Randy’s girlfriend had occupied with her voluptuous cleavage on display. That was the only good memory Alex had of the place.

  The same skinny waitress with the same acne-ravaged complexion approached the booth with menus. “What can I get y’all to drink?” She had the same Southern twang, but it sounded sweeter than it had eight days earlier.

  “Do you remember us, sweetheart?” Lester asked.

  She looked at Lester, then at Alex and said, “By God, I do.” Her eyes shifted back to Lester. “You found yourself a heap of trouble here. Hope you found a way out.”

  “We did,” Lester said. “We came back to enjoy ourselves this time, and do right by you…give you a nice tip for helping us out.”

  She smiled and said, “You don’t have to do that. I was glad to help.”

  “Makes three of us,” Lester said. “How fresh is your coffee? Last two days, I’ve had nothing but jail swill.”

  “I’ll make sure it’s a fresh pot.”

  They agreed on the breakfast buffet, and it was gratifying to watch Lester take one contented bite after another. “Food at the jail looked edible enough,” Lester said between bites. “But no matter what it was—eggs, grits or toast—it all tasted exa
ctly the same.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Alex said as he pulled the torn newsprint out of his pocket. “I was thinking of getting a job down here.”

  Lester brought his coffee mug to his mouth then set it down without taking a sip. “Now why in the hell would you do that?”

  “Because you’ve got that class and community service. I’ll stay here to keep you company.”

  “That’s nice, kid—real nice—but the answer’s no.”

  “Why? I can wash dishes.” He pointed to the ad. “And I’d help pay the rent.”

  “Just hearing you make the offer is good enough for me.”

  “I can totally do it,” Alex said.

  Lester gave a momentary stare, like that was enough to settle the matter. Then he went back to eating and reflecting on how good the food was compared to the slop he’d been served in jail. “It’s good to experience some lack in your life,” he said, “makes you more appreciative.”

  “Why can’t you let me help?”

  “Listen, kid, your life’s up in New York. And your mother would like nothing more than to chop off my head right about now.”

  “She doesn’t know where we are.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He pointed his fork at the scrap of newsprint. “That’s not part of the plan.”

  “Plans change. I want to stay here and work.”

  The waitress came back with a steaming pot of coffee. “How’s everything? Can I filler up?”

  “Everything’s great,” Lester said, putting a hand over his mug. “No more for me.”

  “I got a question,” Alex said to the waitress, “do you need a dishwasher here?”

  “Don’t mind him,” Lester said. “Kid’s been acting strange this morning.”

  “I can look into it,” the waitress said.

  “Don’t bother,” Lester said. “We’ll just take the check when you’re ready.”

  She set the tab on the table. “Y’all come back and see me again.”

  Lester watched the waitress move on to other customers. Then he spoke softly. “I got no intention of staying here. We’re getting you settled back into your house. That’s what we’re doing.”

  Alex knew enough to keep his voice at a whisper. “What about your probation?”

  “If they care enough to track me down, I’ll get a goddamn lawyer in New York.” He raised his napkin to his mouth. “Get the sentence commuted.”

  “When do you want to leave?”

  “You still got some of that money I gave you?”

  “Yeah,” Alex said, “most of it.”

  Lester tapped the table. “Put down fifty bucks, and we leave right now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Lester had insisted on driving, saying he felt bloated from overeating and wanted to take his mind off the discomfort. As they rounded the northbound ramp onto I-95, he said, “Simplest things are the hardest to manage.”

  Alex wondered how long it would take the old man to come around to the topic of death.

  “Breathing, sleeping, eating,” Lester went on, “doesn’t get much simpler than that. But those are the things that get you…right up to the end.”

  Bingo—less than five minutes on the road. Alex tried to shift the conversation. “I thought money was the hardest to manage.”

  “Nah,” Lester said. “You get to be my age, health trumps everything. Money’s just for making the days a little sweeter.”

  “What about friendships?”

  “They come and they go.”

  “You sound a bit cynical,” Alex said. “You think being in jail got to you?”

  “Kid, I’ve been cynical my whole life. You’re just noticing now because you’ve had a good run. You got to screw a pretty girl, and you drove all over the place independently, like a grown-up man. Things are looking up for you.”

  “I wish they were looking up for you too.”

  “At my age, all you care about are little creature comforts, like having a decent mattress, dry underwear and shoes that don’t make your feet swell up like sausages.”

  “I like comfortable shoes.” Alex crossed his right leg over his left and began caressing the new shoe.

  “They’re real nice,” Lester said. “Take it they’re from Selma.”

  Alex nodded and said, “I wish I would’ve gotten her something.” He was fishing, because he assumed Lester had slipped Selma the money for the shoes. “Wonder what these things cost.”

  Lester snapped back. “Why can’t you just appreciate a thing when you get it?”

  “All right,” Alex said. “Thank you.”

  AFTER A COUPLE of hours of driving, there was a big wedge of a sign marking their entry into South Carolina. “No going back,” Lester said. “Once we pass that sign, I’m officially a fugitive. Once you take the wheel, you’re officially harboring a fugitive.”

  “Think they’ll catch us?”

  “They won’t know enough to look until I miss my appointment with the PO. That’s a week away. I could be in goddamn Spain by then.”

  “Is that where you want to be?”

  “Nah, I’ll probably be in goddamn Schenectady, looking for a decent mattress.”

  “I’d like you to stay back at our house,” Alex said. “I could get my mom to go along.” He wasn’t completely sure, but he would do his part, even if that meant reversing the deal about seeing the shrink.

  “Nice of you to offer, but it’s not a good idea. For one, I’d rather not live under the same roof with a woman who hates me.”

  “She’d learn to like you.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Forget it,” Lester said. “My concern is getting you home safely. And I’d like to enjoy the rest of our trip. That won’t happen if you keep nagging me.”

  ALEX USED to believe that breaking the law was something you did only under special circumstances, when all alternative courses of action were no longer available. That was before this road trip. Now, here he was, harboring a fugitive who was sleeping in the backseat without a seatbelt on. One question settled his mind. Was he hurting anyone?

  He answered no. His conscience was clear. But when he probed a little deeper, he found that his conscience was far from clear. Agreeing to kick Lester out of his house seemed sensible at the time. And it had actually worked out pretty well. They probably wouldn’t have taken this trip if Lester had stayed. But now that they were returning, everything was different. Rebecca’s deal with Elder Spring had expired. Lester was essentially homeless. Yet all he seemed to care about was getting Alex home safely.

  “I had a dream,” Lester announced groggily, still reclined on the backseat. “Not the Martin Luther King, Jr. variety. Wasn’t quite that ambitious.”

  “What was it?” Alex asked, still wracked with guilt.

  “It was you and me finding a luxury hotel, a real nice place.” Lester slowly raised himself to vertical. “We played chess into the wee hours. It was a lot of fun.”

  “I’ve never played.”

  “That’s a shame,” Lester said. “And that’s why I aim to teach you. There’s a Hilton Hotel in Charlotte. We’ll get ourselves a top-notch room.”

  “What about a chess board?”

  “I’ve got a travel set in my suitcase.”

  Alex shook his head. “You’re gonna kick my ass.”

  THE SUN was a hovering ball, appearing and disappearing behind gray and black skyscrapers. Alex turned the Cadillac into the valet lane at the Hilton Hotel. A man in a tux opened the driver’s door and held out a ticket in exchange for car keys. Alex stepped out of the vehicle saying, “Thank you,” though he wasn’t exactly sure why.

  “Everything’s in the trunk,” Lester said as he helped himself up with his stick. He stood close to Alex and whispered, “I’m paying with a credit card, but we’ll need small bills. Places like this, you got to throw tip money everywhere.”

  Alex fished all the fives and ones out of his wallet,
putting them in his front pocket for easy disbursal. They entered a marbleized lobby with lacquered wood columns. A hundred shades of color bloomed out of a crystal vase. A bellman pushed a brass cart with their luggage. It would be quite an embarrassment if they couldn’t find a room after all this production.

  “May I help you?” a woman with flawless skin said to Lester.

  “I’d like a nice room with a view.” He was struggling with his breath. “Two beds, non-smoking.” He leaned his stick against the stone counter and slouched over his elbows. Alex kept a respectful distance.

  The woman clicked at her computer. “We have some lovely suites still available. I can put you in one on the seventeenth floor for $209. How many nights?”

  “That’ll be fine, just tonight.” He handed her a credit card and signed his name at the bottom of an invoice. The woman smiled a perfect-teeth-glossy-lipped smile and handed him an envelope with two key cards and free passes to the adjoining gym. The bellman held open the elevator while Lester labored his way there.

  The suite was nothing like Alex’s room at the Brunswick Days Inn. First thing he noticed was flowers in a vase centered on a glass-top table. Then his eyes locked onto a spectacular sunset through smoked glass. He tipped the bellman five dollars. Then he approached the window. His eyes went back and forth between the sunset and the urban landscape below.

  Lester stood next to him. “This right here makes it all worthwhile.”

  “Is the room as nice as the one in your dream?”

  “It’s different, has a different feel. This one’s contemporary—very chic, as they say.”