by R. R. Banks
I walk down Main and peer in some of the shop windows, glad to see that there are still some old places I recognize. Across the street is the burger place I used to hang out at after school and after games. I smile as I remember that I had my first kiss in that joint, actually – freshmen year, after a football game. I strain my mind but can't come up with her name though.
Still, it's a fond memory and I can't help but smile at the thought of it.
I stop in front of Douglas' Sweets Shop – my favorite ice cream shop in all the world. Honestly, I haven't found a place with better ice cream or dessert treats. And frankly, I'm surprised it's still around. Old Man Douglas was pushing seventy when I still lived here. He had no kids – none that I knew of, anyway. Maybe there was some other family member I didn't know about who took over the shop. Hell, for all I knew, maybe Old Man Douglas was still alive and running the store.
One way to find out. The old bells over the door still tinkle when I stepped inside – just like they had way back when. And just like it had back then, the shop was filled with the most delicious aromas imaginable. My mouth was watering just standing inside the store – just like it had all those years ago.
I look around the shop in wonder. Barely anything has changed. It's like Douglas' was preserved in a time capsule or something. It has the same dark wood, the same glass cases, and of course, the same outstanding array of sweet treats.
Talk about a wave of nostalgia smacking you in the face
A young woman with a dark ponytail, soft pale skin, and a t-shirt that's probably a couple of sizes too small, comes out of the back and flashes me a warm smile. She's probably either still in high school or just out of it. She was about the only thing that was different inside the store – that and the rock music playing over the speakers. Old Man Douglas always believed that kids shouldn't be working – that they should be out having fun being kids. And so, he very rarely hired anybody still in school.
“What can I get you?” she asks.
I look around at the cases, stuffed full of amazing looking goodies and realize that I've been so caught up in my reverie that I wasn't really paying attention. I give my head a small shake and look at the girl again.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah,” I reply. “Sorry. I used to live here and was just kind of taking a trip down memory lane.”
She nods as if she understands, though she's so young, I doubt she can actually relate. For her, a trip down memory lane isn't likely going to go any further back than her prom or something like that.
“The man who used to own this shop – Mr. Douglas,” I say. “Is he still around?”
The girl gives me a soft smile. “No, unfortunately, he passed away about five years ago,” she says. “Before he did though, he sold the shop to my dad.”
I nod and feel a twinge of sadness about the old man's passing. He could be gruff sometimes, but he was a good man. Honest. Kind. He frequently handed out treats to the kids for one reason or another. I know I'd been the recipient of the old man's treats on far more than one occasion – probably because he felt sorry for me. It's not like I had some mystical bond with the old man or anything, but he was always pretty cool to me and I appreciated him for that.
I motion around the shop. “But you guys didn't change anything in here,” I say. “It looks exactly like it did back in the day. Even the name.”
The girl shrugs. “My dad said it was best to not screw up a good thing,” she says. “He said that the shop had thrived for forty years, so there was no need to fix something that wasn't broken.”
I chuckle softly. “Your dad is a wise man.”
“Sometimes, I guess,” she says and smiles – and I can tell that she might put up a front, but she's an absolute daddy's girl.
“Well,” I say. “How about a double scoop of mint chip ice cream on a sugar cone?”
“Comin' right up.”
I walk around and look inside some of the cases as the girl gets my cone ready. I can't help but smile as the memories come flooding back to me. Memories of good times. With good friends.
“Cone's up,” she says.
I pay for my cone and thank the girl before heading back out onto the street. I taste the ice cream and laugh out loud – making a pair of elderly women passing by give me a strange look. The ice cream is every bit as good as I remember.
“It's the simple things in life, ladies,” I say to the old women. “The simple things.”
They shake their heads and mutter to each other as they hurry on by. I continue walking down the street, munching on my treat, letting the nostalgia and memories wash over me. It's surprising to me – all of the fond recollections. When I left, it was with a sour, bitter taste in my mouth and nothing but anger clouding my mind. I was sure there was nothing for me in Sheridan Falls but hurtful, painful memories.
Maybe time does heal wounds. Not all of them, of course. But some of them. Maybe that time and distance away from Sheridan Falls has allowed me to heal and discard those things that hurt me. Angered me. Filled me with a dark, abiding rage I was certain would be with me forever.
At least somewhat. I still have some issues with my past, but I chose not to dwell on them. My life is very different from what it was. I am very different from who I'd been. I've been so determined to make a clean break from my past, from my life here, that I honestly, haven't spent much time rehashing those memories. Have actively avoided dwelling on the past. It serves no purpose.
Of course, getting shot at and nearly blown up on a daily basis for the last decade certainly proved to be a very suitable diversion from my thoughts and feelings.
Still, it's surprising to me that after everything I'd endured here, everything I'd gone through, that my first thoughts and feelings upon setting foot in the place I swore I never would again, were a fond nostalgia.
“Caleb? Caleb Tirico?”
I turn quickly at the woman's voice and feel the smile spread across my face almost instantly as I recognize her – which surprises me after all these years.
“Becky Larson,” I say. “How in the hell are you?”
“Griggs now,” she corrects me. “Becky Griggs.”
“You and Bobby ended up married,” I say. “That's terrific. Congratulations.”
“Married for eight years and two kids later,” she says with a laugh.
Bobby and Becky had been together all throughout high school and it's not all that surprising they ended up together. They were part of our group during our high school years and I remember that while not exceptionally close to either of them, I did like them.
“That's great, Becky. I'm happy for you.”
“Thanks,” she says and a touch of sadness enters her voice. “You back for Rick's funeral?”
I nod and choke back the emotion that was welling up within me. “Yeah.”
She reaches out and gives my hand a squeeze. “I know how close you guys were,” she says. “This must be hard for you.”
“I'm sure it's hard for all of us,” I say. “Rick was one of the good ones.”
She nods. “He was.”
We stand in a deep, sad silence for a few minutes before she clears her throat and puts on a smile – one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Rick's death is obviously hitting a lot of us really hard.
“So, where have you been all these years, Caleb?” she asks. “You're one of Sheridan Falls' greatest mysteries – the man who vanished.”
Rick is the only one who knew about my life after I left. I honestly didn't feel the need to keep up with anybody else because I figured I'd never see them again anyway. At least, that's how I'd intended for things to be. Now, standing right in front of a face from my past, I have to decide how deep I want to let myself go. How much I want to reveal.
Given that I'm only going to be there until just after the funeral, I tell myself that I can reveal a little bit. But not too much. Just enough to hopefully stop the questions.
“I – I join
ed the Corps,” I said. “Spent a little more than a decade there.”
“Wow,” Becky replied. “So, right after graduation, you just ran off and enlisted?”
I gave her a smile. “That's about it, yeah.”
She shook her head. “That's – crazy. Wow.”
I laugh. “Yeah, so I've been told.”
Her cell phone rings and she grabs it out of her bag, looking at the display and frowning. She holds up a finger, telling me to give her a minute. I nod and she connects the call.
“Hey, honey,” she says. “Give me just a minute, okay?”
She holds the phone to her chest, an apologetic look on her face. I just smile and give her arm a gentle squeeze.
“Don't worry about it,” I say. “Duty calls for you.”
“Listen,” she says. “Tomorrow night, we're all getting together down at the Wagon for a few drinks around eight. Kind of give Rick a sendoff. Everybody's going to be there. Why don't you come? Please?”
I give her a smile. “I'd like that,” I say. “I'll be there.”
“Great,” she gives me a warm smile. “I'll see you then.”
I watch her walk off, the phone pressed to her ear. I turn and walk down the street the other way, soaking in the apparently new and improved Sheridan Falls. So much has changed and yet, I can already see that so many things have remained the same.
Chapter Twelve
As usual, I was up before the sun and had gone out on my daily five-mile run. It's a habit I picked up in the Corps and one I enjoy. I like running – it gives me some solitude, some quiet time in my own head, to sort through what's up there and either file it or discard it. Having that time alone clears my head and allows me to focus on the most pressing tasks at hand.
And this morning, there is only one task I feel is most pressing. I have a visit to make and it's one that while I'm not dreading it, it's one I'm not entirely looking forward to either.
I hop in the shower and wash away the sweat, letting the nearly scalding hot water cascade down over me. It's little things like hot water that I used to take for granted and really missed when I was overseas. Ever since I came back home, I relished a good, hot shower in a way I never did before. Like I told those two old ladies yesterday – it's the little things in life.
After toweling off and getting dressed, I walk out of the hotel room and drive back down to Main Street. I know there are now shops and restaurants all over town, but I don't know the new Sheridan Falls well enough yet to go venturing out. All I want is to grab some breakfast and go do what I need to do.
When I took my little walking tour of Main yesterday, I was dismayed to find that the Bluebird Cafe was long gone. In its place now, is a Starbucks. Of course, it's a Starbucks. Those things crop up like cancer cells – fast and everywhere. The Bluebird was awesome and I hated that it was gone.
I did find a place that looked like a reasonable substitute though. I park on a side street, get out of the car, and head for the Sunny Side Up Cafe. Honestly, it looks a lot like the Bluebird did. Which means, it looks like a greasy little hole in the wall – which is exactly what I want.
I step into the place and it's half-full of people getting their morning dose of grease and coffee – a terrific American tradition.
“Sit anywhere you want, hon,” the waitress calls to me from the counter where she's pouring a cup of coffee for an older gentleman.
I give her a wave and take a seat in a booth near the back of the diner. The morning crowd is a mix of what looks like the typical old timers who like to have a cup of coffee and a chat in the morning and business professionals who were stuffing their faces before heading in for their nine-to-five grind. Yeah, so glad I avoided that pitfall upon coming back to the States. PI work may not be glamorous, but it wasn't soul-sucking like cubicle life can be either.
I take the menu and give it a once over – not that I don't already know what I want. I just want to make sure the place isn't some secret vegan restaurant and my only options would be tofu-flavored gruel, brussel sprouts, or whatever it is those people eat.
“What's it gonna be, hon?”
The waitress has a kind face and genuine smile. She just looks like the kind of woman who laughs a lot and finds a lot of joy in life.
“How's your chicken fried steak?” I ask.
“Best in the state of Washington,” she replies.
“Sold,” I say. “Hash browns – crispy. Two eggs over easy, a short stack of pancakes, sausage, and a cup of coffee, black.”
“A man who knows what he wants,” she says with a mischievous grin. “I like that.”
“When it comes to food, I don't mess around.”
“Clearly not,” she says with a laugh. “It's a good quality to have in a man. I like a man who knows how to eat.”
I laugh and give her a smile as I motion to the ring on her hand. “A quality I'm sure your husband must have in spades.”
“That he does,” she chuckles. “Believe me, that man can eat.”
“Judging by the smile on your face, I have no doubt about it,” I say.
The woman cackles and blushes, shaking her head at me. “I'll go grab your coffee, hon.”
She leaves the table and returns a moment later, setting a mug of coffee down in front of me. She's still laughing and shaking her head, unable to speak, so she just walks away. I grin as I pick up my mug and take a sip, savoring that first splash of coffee on my tongue.
A few minutes later, she brings out my food – and I'm almost dismayed by the size of the portions. They're huge. My stomach grumbles though, letting me know it's not going to be a problem.
“Can I get anything else for ya, hon?” she asks.
“Not at the moment,” I say. “But I may need a forklift to haul me out of here when I'm done.”
“Good thing we've got one out back for those kinds of emergencies,” she says. “Give me a holler if you need anything.”
I nod. “Will do. Thank you.”
Digging into my mountain of food, I grunt with pleasure. The food is good – maybe even better than the food had been at the Bluebird. Whoever's in the kitchen knows what they're doing back there.
I devoured almost everything and when I finally push my plates away from me, my stomach feels ready to burst. I didn't normally gorge myself like that, but I was hungry and it was amazingly good. The waitress came back and cleared my dishes, nodding in approval at the cleaned plates.
“My compliments to the chef,” I say. “It was incredible.”
“You gonna need that forklift?”
“I think I might be able to roll myself out,” I reply. “But thanks.”
“Anytime,” she says and gives me a wink. “Really, anytime.”
She laughs and drops the check on the table as she walks away. I pull my wallet out and pay the bill, leaving her a generous tip. Feeling bloated but satisfied, I waddle out of the diner and look at my watch. It's a little past eight in the morning. Meaning, it's time.
With a sigh, I climb back into the car and pull away from the curb. I may not know where everything is in this new city, but I know how to get to where I need to go right now.
Chapter Thirteen
My stomach is actually in knots as I stand on the porch, facing the door. It's a door I know well – one I've passed through thousands of times. But as I stand there, it suddenly feels alien to me. There's no real reason for it – the people beyond that door have been nothing but loving and supportive of me – but still, that feeling persists.
I take a deep breath and let it out, reaching out and pushing the doorbell button before I can think about it anymore. I hear the chime sound inside and I wait. A moment later, I hear footsteps approach the door and after a brief pause, it opens.
A middle-aged woman looks back at me with confusion in her eyes for a moment. And as I stand there silently, I see the light of comprehension dawning in her face.
“Caleb,” she says softly.
“Mrs. Turner,” I s
ay. “It's been a while.”
“I'll say,” she says, holding a hand to her chest. “It's been a very long while. How are you, Caleb?”
I nod. “I'm doing okay, thank you,” I reply. “How are you and Mr. Turner doing?”
She nods and gives me a small smile, but I see the tears shimmering in her eyes. She sniffs and wipes at her eyes, refusing to let them fall. Rick's mom is made of some tough stuff, but I can see the pain of her loss is weighing heavily on her. I reach out and give her a reassuring squeeze.
“I'm very sorry, Mrs. Turner,” I say softly. “I came as soon as I found out.”
“I know this can't be easy for you. For many reasons,” she says. “But I'm glad you're here. Thank you for being here.”
“Of course,” I reply.
“My husband will be glad to see you, but he's out on the lake fishing this morning,” she says. “He needs some time alone to process it all.”
“That's understandable.”
She ushers me inside. “Come in, let's have a cup of coffee.”
“I'd love to.”
I follow her through the house and down to the kitchen I knew so well. Though they'd done some minor work in the house, changing small things here and there, it looked much the same as it had back when I was practically living here.
I take a seat at the kitchen table and Mrs. Turner pours us both a cup of coffee, setting them down on the table before taking a seat across from me. I wrap my hands around the mug and stare down into the dark liquid, not even sure how to begin.
“You've been gone a long time,” Mrs. Turner said. “Not that I don't understand your reasons.”
I nod. “I thought I needed a fresh start somewhere.”
“Of course,” she says. “Richard kept your confidences very well, but he did mention that you had joined the military.”
