The Drifter's Wheel

by Phillip DePoy

  Jacob Jackson had fought for the Union Army.

  It was often told that he had been killed in the battle by his own brother, a relative of Stonewall Jackson, and that his body had been left to rot in the sweltering aftermath of the campaign. Three of my favorite local ghost stories, collected years before, involved the wandering spirit of Jacob Jackson looking for a home that he would never find, asking in vain to speak with his brother.

  Eight

  The drive to Atlanta was much stranger than usual. That mood gathered around my car like low fog that rose up from sheer cliffs off the side of the road and hissed from dark crevasses between gray rocks. My headlights accomplished little more than the illusion of light, offering a vague glow around my old, rusted green truck. It surely served more as a warning to others that I was coming than as a way to light the road before me.

  A near constant rain of dead leaves, colorless in the night, pelted the windshield. Wipers caught half a dozen at a time and smeared the fog across the glass, making it impossible to see. If a deer—or a human being—had been in the road, I would have made quite a mess on the highway.

  The tension of driving blind was exacerbated, of course, by the unshakable recollection of the ghost stories I had heard about nights like that, a lonely ride on a dark road after midnight—heard them since I was six or seven years old. No matter that I was a rational man in the twenty-first century, possessed of a doctoral degree and the keen perceptions of a person of letters—after midnight, tired and blind, the primal fears hold sway.

  How many times had I awakened in my bed at three o’clock in the morning, knowing to my soul that the sound I’d heard on the stairs was nothing more than the creaking of an old house, but nevertheless breathing quickly, heart thumping in my chest like a badger in a trap, afraid of what was rising upward, coming toward my room?

  And how much stronger was that feeling when the safety of home and bed was gone?

  I had driven that road a hundred times, in the darkness and in daylight. I could probably have gone safely down it with my eyes closed tight. But that night, all the turns were wrong; angles were strange; signs and markers were unfamiliar.

  And who was to say what manner of spirit rode the same wind that drove dead leaves? Who could tell what shadow had just moved suddenly out of the corner of the eye?

  I was two seconds away from actually becoming Ichabod Crane when a BMW roared out of the fog, over the rise, and blinded me with its high beams. I sniffed, and gathered my thoughts. As the car shot past, I fancied that I saw the same look of relief on the driver’s face that he saw on mine: We were both, despite our fears, still among the living.

  The mood did not entirely evaporate. Enough lingered to make the rest of the drive down the mountains a sort of autumn carnival, a delicious shiver in the remembrance of Octobers past. Orange pumpkins leaned through blood red chrysanthemums in my mind, the way my father always found time to decorate our front porch when I was a child. And instead of the terror of the ancient ghost stories, I found comfort in their lessons.

  The primary lesson of most ghost tales is that you ought to finish your life here on earth before moving on to the next. If you don’t, you may have to stay here for a while, bereft of body, attempting to do in death what you did not accomplish in life. The morals that applied to me were simple: Tell Lucinda that you love her while you can; rid yourself of the ghosts of your parents once and for all, before it’s too late; if you want to stay in Blue Mountain, stay—if you want to go, go. Don’t wobble or you might be stuck there whether you want to be or not.

  They were good lessons to learn.

  I thought about stopping in Dahlonega, Georgia’s momentary minor gold-rush town, to look for all-night coffee and to clear my head, but my truck wanted to keep driving, and I let it have its way.

  Another few hours and I was on the outskirts of Atlanta. The sun wouldn’t be long in rising. Atlanta’s rain had passed in the night, and the sky was swept clean, waiting for a blue that only autumn or Max-field Parrish could accomplish.

  As usual, traffic was a bit heavy, though not what it would be in an hour. Coming from the north, heading into town, I would have been in stand-still, parking-lot traffic if I had left Blue Mountain an hour later. As it was, it took me almost an hour to get from my first distant sighting of the city skyline to the brighter vision of Andrews’s brick home.

  I pulled into his driveway, stretched, and turned off the engine, glancing at my watch. It wasn’t seven o’clock yet. I wondered if he’d be awake. As if in answer, he appeared in the front window.

  I got out of the truck, and his front door opened.

  “You made good time.” He yawned. “You didn’t get caught in all that mess north of the perimeter?”

  “I think it was just starting as I passed by.” I made it to his front steps.

  “Well, there’s coffee on—not your standard of same, but it’s chock-full of caffeine, which is all that’s important to me.” He stepped aside to let me in.

  His living room looked exactly the same as it had the last time I’d been there. It was cozy, and offered a fine fireplace with built-in bookshelves on either side of the mantle and the dining room was large and filled with light in the morning.

  The house technically boasted three bedrooms, but for Andrews there was one bedroom, one office, and one room where he kept everything that seemed to confuse him. The junk there was an assortment of old unwanted Christmas gifts, broken furniture, boxes yet unpacked from his move into the house, years before.

  The living room, however, was relatively free of clutter. A vase of dried flowers—the only sort he could manage—helped to enliven the mantel, sitting between two cinnamon-colored candles. All in all the place said, “I’m a straight, academic bachelor. I have no idea what to do with a house, but I take myself too seriously to live in an apartment.”

  Whereas Andrews said, at that very moment, “I have an eight o’clock class. I can’t chat.”

  “Of course not,” I responded instantly. “Just tell me where Polly Hutchinson Jackson lives, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “You think you’re just going to drive over there and burst into her room?” He laughed. “They have security personnel for the likes of you.”

  “I have a plan,” I confided. “I brought my Wollensak.”

  “Oh, well, then,” he mocked. “Stand back. The man has a tape recorder.”

  “I also have a laminated card that identifies me as a certified field researcher for the American Folklore Society.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “The society,” I told him in what could only be described as a snooty tone, “is the national association for folklorists and publishes a quarterly, the Journal of American Folklore, for which I have written over fifty articles.”

  “Flip you,” he responded in his most exaggerated English accent, “a very large fish.”

  “Be that as it may,” I said, grinning, “I have invaded many a facility for the care of elderly Americans with no more than that card and my trusty tape recorder, and have saved hundreds of stories and facts from extinction. Do you mistake me for someone who does not know what he’s about?”

  “We’ll see,” Andrews said, obviously in doubt.

  “So will you tell me where she stays,” I asked, “or do I have to call a cop?”

  “Mrs. Jackson lives at the Suncrest Retirement Village, corner of Ponce de Leon and Clairmont.”

  “It’s not Ponce that far out,” I corrected him, “it’s Scott Boulevard.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the last act of Aida, you know where I’m talking about.”

  “That I do,” I agreed. “And so I’m off.”

  “You don’t want coffee?” he said, slowing down a bit.

  “Your coffee?” I tried to make it sound as if we were talking about something from a sewer.

  “Fine. You don’t want to relax for a second after your drive?”

  “I thought you had to ge
t ready for your class.”

  “I do,” he stammered, “but now I feel guilty for mistreating you.”

  “Then I have you where I want you,” I answered him in mock triumph. “Look, I’ll go see if I can talk to the woman. If I can, I’ll be done by lunch and probably come back here for a nap, if that’s all right with you. If I can’t get in to see her, I’ll be back sooner and rustle up some grub.”

  “Grub?” he sneered. “What, from my chuck wagon? You’re a cowboy now? I thought you were from the American Society of Useless Academic Disciplines.”

  “You have eggs in the refrigerator?”

  “I do,” he sighed, giving up his argument. “You still have your key to this place, I assume.”

  I held up my key ring and showed it to him.

  He turned away. “You’re sure I can’t get you anything?”

  It was an idle threat. He had no intention of getting me anything, and would not have known what to do if I’d asked.

  “Maybe I should have a bit of coffee,” I ventured, still standing in the doorway. “The drive may have dulled me.”

  “You know where it is,” he mumbled without looking back, heading toward his room.

  I closed the front door and wandered hopelessly into the kitchen, dreading the very thought of the lukewarm, rust-colored water in his Mister Coffee machine.

  When what to my wondering eyes should appear but a very fetching French press on his kitchen counter, filled to the rim with opaque obsidian, and a plate of golden croissants, steam actually rising off them. That white vapor seemed a happier version of the fog through which I had recently come, and an antidote for it.

  “You tricked me,” I called out.

  “I surprised you,” he corrected.

  In truth, he had. I would never have suspected that he owned a French press, let alone that he would go to the trouble of using it for the likes of me. And how he had timed warm bread without knowing when I would arrive was a great mystery.

  “You’re speechless,” he said, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen.

  “I’m … touched.” I looked between him and the coffee. “If you’re not careful, you may actually turn out to be an adult one day.”

  “God forbid,” he said, and was gone once more.

  By the time he returned to the kitchen his hair was combed, he was wearing a tie, and I had finished my coffee.

  There was one croissant left, and he took it.

  “Ready?” I said, taking my coffee cup to the sink.

  “We’re away.”

  I followed him out through the living room and onto the porch. He made one sideways nod to the front door, and I knew what he meant. I tried the key I had on my own key ring, and it worked, clicking the lock cleanly.

  “All right, then,” he said, heading toward his black BMW, “will you be here when I get home?”

  “Possibly,” I answered, climbing into my truck.

  I sat for a moment, getting my bearings and trying to think of the best way to get to Ponce de Leon. Andrews waved and was gone.

  Nine

  The Suncrest Retirement Village was, the large, prominent sign at its gate told me, specializing in the care of the memory impared. Andrews hadn’t told me that. Maybe he hadn’t known, or maybe he’d found it amusing that I might have difficulty trying to mine memories from someone who didn’t have them.

  The very imposing front gate, which was closed, stood twenty feet tall and was made of iron spears. There was a pristine security station to one side, brand-new but designed to give what a second-rate architect must have thought of as a rustic appearance. Its exterior was covered with cedar shingles, and there was a faux chimney sticking foolishly out of the roof.

  I pulled up to it and rolled down my window.

  “Hi.” I flashed a smile. “I’m Dr. Devilin, here to see Polly Hutchinson Jackson.”

  The man in the booth smiled back.

  “Good morning, Doctor. Let me just see here.” He surveyed a long list in front of him. “It’s not on today’s roster. Let me just give a quick call inside.”

  He picked up his phone before I could say anything.

  “Bob,” he said almost instantly, “I’ve got Dr. Deffling here at the front gate, and I don’t see him on today’s list.”

  He listened for a moment, then glanced up at me.

  “What’s it pertaining?”

  “I’m collecting some stories from Mrs. Jackson,” I said. “I’ve done the same thing with Dr. Bradley over at the DeKalb County Senior Center.”

  I was hoping I’d remembered the name correctly. It had been years since I’d done any collecting at that particular center.

  The guard stared. “Collecting what, now?”

  “I’m authorized by the Library of Congress,” I told him, reaching for my wallet, “to interview Mrs. Jackson concerning her experiences as a singer during World War II. I’ll record the interview, perhaps a song or two, and the tape will go into the archives. It’s an effort to preserve the past, and to learn from it.”

  He kept staring at me but spoke into the phone. “You get all that, Bob?”

  Apparently, Bob did.

  “When was the last time you worked with Dr. Bradley, Bob wants to know.”

  “I don’t remember, but I collected some stories from two of his day groups. There was a man named Fred something or other who used to be a minister in Columbus, and owned goats.” That much was true.

  The guard nodded. “Fred Pasley, Bob says. Bob used to work over there is how he knows Fred’s name. It was a while back, but Bob says you’re legit.” He pushed a hidden button and the great iron gate began to swing inward. “He says let you in. Go to the main house and see Bob. You can’t miss it.”

  Improvisation and luck are two of the most essential tools available to the field collector, and I was generally blessed with both.

  The village inside was quite pleasant, if a bit of a Disney fantasy. The woods were sculpted within an inch of their lives, and the driveways to the larger houses off the main road appeared to be paved with cobblestones.

  The main house loomed at the end of the road, five stories high and impressive despite the same treatment as had been given the security booth. It was painted in textbook examples of what were contemporarily considered soothing colors. Set, as it was, against a perfect autumn-blue, cloudless sky, the building looked more like an artist’s rendering than an actual place.

  As I neared the front door of the place, a man emerged. He was dressed in the same kind of uniform as the man in the security booth, and he had a clipboard in his hand. I assumed he must be the fabled Bob.

  I pulled up to him and leaned out the window.

  “You must be Bob,” I said, offering my hand.

  He took it, shook it once, and cleared his throat.

  “Do you have a picture ID, sir?” He was all business.

  I retrieved my wallet and produced my driver’s license and my card from the American Folklore Society. He took his time looking at them both and then looking at me, studying my face. He walked around to the back of the truck, made a great show of taking my tag number, and then came back to the driver’s side.

  “She’s not expecting you,” he said at length.

  “What would be the point of arranging anything like that with her?” I asked him, trying to sound confidential. “You know she wouldn’t remember it the next day.”

  “I don’t know Ms. Jackson personally, Dr. Devilin.” He shrugged, handing me back my cards. “But you’re right, most of them here don’t know what time it is. She’s in Villa 680, around to your right. If she won’t let you in or she asks you to leave, you will have to vacate the premises through the front gate and tell the man up there what happened. Agreed?”

  “Of course.”

  That was good enough for Bob. He turned without another word and went back inside the main building.

  I wound my way through impossibly immaculate landscaping and found myself at Villa 680 in short
order. The sun spilled recklessly through ruby leaves and made golden bars across the front door of the tiny faux townhouse.

  There being no driveway, I parked in front, a little up on the curb, fearing I might block the road if I didn’t. I hoisted my Wollensak from its spot on the front seat and headed for the doorbell.

  Before I had taken two steps, the door flew open.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome.” The woman was stunning. Her gray hair was lustrous and full, and perfectly cut in a simple wave. She wore a black pantsuit that only accentuated her hair, made it a silver crown. Her skin was supernaturally clean and clear, barely wrinkled and completely poreless. But her eyes were the most startling: bright green gems, burning with an inner strength and passion that one generally lost by age thirty.

  “Mrs. Jackson?” I ventured. Surely not.

  “Polly, please.”

  She said it with such easy charm that I was nearly at a loss for what to say.

  “That little man from the main building called to say you were coming,” she explained, stepping aside so that I might come into her home. “Isn’t he just the funniest thing ever?”

  “Well,” I said hesitantly, “laughter was not my first impulse.”

  “Come on in.” She beckoned, hurrying me. “We’ll sort it all out.”

  “I’m Dr. Devilin,” I began, holding out my free hand.

  “Of course you are.” She took my hand and squeezed it.

  She backed into her living room, and I went in.

  The place was astonishing. However irritatingly false the outside of her home might have been, the interior was absolutely that genuine. Perfectly cared-for antiques ruled the room—an overstuffed sofa, tables, two wing chairs, an ancient leather one, deco lamps—but they were accented by startlingly modern art on her walls. The combination was rich beyond belief. I was struck dumb.

  “I see you like Duy Huynh,” she told me, following my eyes to one of her paintings. “I just love his sense of whimsy. I’ve bought something of his from every show he’s had at the Aliya Gallery. Do you know it?”