Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One
Page 1
JUST PAST OYSTERVILLE
* * *
Shoalwater Book One
PERRY P. PERKINS
PERRYPERKINSBOOKS
Wilsonville, Oregon
PerryPerkinsBooks
PO Box 21
Wilsonville, Oregon 97070
JUST PAST OYSTERVILLE
Shoalwater Book One
3rdEdition
Copyright © 2009 by Perry P. Perkins
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 1449965717
PerryPerkinsBookstitles are available for special
promotions and premiums. For details contact: sales@perryperkinsbooks.com
For Victoria...always my inspiration.
Acknowledgments
“Ointment and perfume rejoice the heart: so doth the sweetness of a man's friend by hearty counsel.” ~Proverbs 27:9~
Far too many family and friends helped, encouraged, and challenged, than I could ever thank in a single page.
Here’s the top of the list:
Diane Anderson, Elizabeth Kirkham, Heather Friesen, Jeni Bullis, & Melanie Zallee…my extra eyes
Pastor Doug Fairrington - my friend & compass.
&
“The Real Cassie” Hobbs, even if
she won’t eat oysters…
Also by Perry P. Perkins
Shoalwater Voices: Shoalwater Book Two
Elk Hunters Don’t Cry
More of Perry’s work can be found at
www.perryperkinsbooks.com
and
www.pdxdads.com
Prologue
In the darkness, he feels the chill water seeping through his boots with the rising tide. Frigid rain, peppered with sleet, stings his face, numbing his fingers until he can no longer feel the bottle as it slips from his grasp, draining its last inch of bourbon into the sand. He stares, unseeing, into the blackness, weeping in the bitter, salty air.
Thunder crashes, mingling with the distant roar of the surf. The revolver comes from his pocket warm and heavy in his hand, like a living thing. The man sways drunkenly in the wind, caressing his cheek with the revolver. He curses, sobbing her name into the wind as the barrel comes to rest against his temple.
Then, with a sigh, he squeezes the trigger, the shot echoing with the thunder as the hammer falls.
Chapter One
"I am an orphan," she whispered.
Cassie Belanger watched as her mother’s casket was lowered into the sandy desert soil. The sky was blue, bright and sharp at noon; already it was nearly seventy degrees and still February in Bowie, Arizona. By June, Cassie knew, the heat at midday would be unbearable.
A dry north wind whispered sand over the toes of her shoes, carrying the faintest scents of juniper and sage. It seemed very quiet, standing there on the wide marble-pocked lawn listening to the squeak of the pulleys as they brought the body of forty-two year old Kathy Belanger, clad in her best purple only-for-church dress, to her final resting place.
A single blue carnation, from the high pile of flowers heaped atop, slipped from the casket lid and fell softly into the concrete lined grave below. Cassie watched as it tumbled end over end into the darkness that waited to receive her mother’s body. Her mind was still in free fall, her world had changed so suddenly, so dramatically, and she couldn't, at least she hadn't yet, been able to grasp the enormity of it.
The service had been brief. Pastor Williams intoning the Lord’s blessing on Katherine Belanger, his voice echoing flatly in the thin desert air. He spoke of her mother's life, of her faith and her sudden tragic end.
A step from a dark curb; from the same corner of the same street that she crossed five nights out of seven, coming home in the early morning hours, her heavy wool jacket hiding starched nurse’s whites. A mile-long walk from Bowie’s Adventist Hospital to the Desert Rose trailer park where a dozen and a half decaying trailers housed the most desperate rung of Bowie's dwindling population.
“A step from the curb and into the arms of God” Guy Williams had said, as he stood at the pulpit and addressed the handful of somber clad co-workers, neighbors and friends.
Cassie had cringed at this; it wasn't the arms of God that had awaited her mother as she stepped into the street, not by a long shot. She heard again squealing tires and the sickening crumple of metal on flesh, the sounds that haunted her dreams.
She’d listened, dry-eyed. Her heart aching, her eyes burning to weep, but it wouldn't happen.
*
Sheriff Pranger had knocked on the tin door of the old singlewide that she and her mother shared. Cassie had opened the door and there he’d stood, in the predawn darkness, nervous hands turning his hat over and over, his eyes never meeting her own as he mumbled an uncomfortable greeting.
“Better go get your coat, Honey,” he’d said, fighting the urge to look away, “and come with us.”
Over his shoulder, Cassie had seen Guy and Grace Williams in the shadows, clothing rumpled as though thrown on in haste. Pastor Williams stood, tight-lipped and pale, as his wife pressed her face into his shoulder and wept.
Cassie had known, as she turned to find a coat and shoes, that her mother was dead. She had shed her tears, weeping silently into her pillow, as she lay awake on the twin bed in the Williams’ spare room. Then, this morning, she’d dashed from the arrangement office of the mortuary and into the ladies room, overcome by a storm of tears. She’d sat on the cushioned bench, her head lain against the cool wall of the restroom, her small frame wracked with sobs, and her face burning with tears until she felt as though she were choking on them, drowning in her grief.
She was an orphan.
Could it have been only a week earlier that she and her mother had been shopping together, chatting and laughing as they searched for a new school outfit; the one that Cassie would wear to her college orientation?
Portland, Oregon seemed a world away, a cool, forested, rainy place far to the west. It was there that Cassie had sent her transcripts, hoping to begin her dream of writing at the University. Only a week before, she and her mother had laughed and cried together at the thought of her leaving.
She had hoped to begin school with the spring term, and orientation was just two weeks away, a frenzied handful of days to pack and say goodbyes. Only a week before...
The days leading up to the service had been a blur. Even in her grief, Cassie knew that if she stayed, if she didn’t catch a bus, right now, and escape the confines of this dusty little town, she might never escape at all. Her writing might forever remain a dream.
So she had talked to their Pastor, Guy, and to her mother’s best friend, his wife, Grace. Guy had listened as Cassie poured out her hopes and dreams, her fears and reasons, nodding silently throughout, and then assured her that she must; in fact, that she wouldbe on that bus. Then they’d packed up the Belanger’s few belongings, loading them into the church van and hauling them to the Williams’ to be stored, as Cassie filled a duffel bag with the few items she would need for her trip.
*
The night before, after clearing the dishes from the William's dining table, Grace had privately tried to talk her out of going so soon. She’d begged her to wait until the summer, or better, the fall, to give her grief some time to heal. Cassie sat, listening to the length and breadth of Grace's argument, but not for a moment considering it.
As she’d glanced around the warmth of the Williams' home, her mind had flooded with the memories of better times. How many nights had she and her mother eaten dinner at that same table, or played board games, roaring with laughter at Guy's flagrant attempts to cheat? How many movies had they watched, piled onto the big, faded sectional in t
he living room, scattering popcorn across the carpet?
How many times had the five of them just sat and talked?
Talked about what was happening in their little town, about Guy's latest sermon, who had listened and who hadn't, or just about life, and what hand it was dealing each of them.
Cassie had slept poorly that night, waiting for her exhaustion to overwhelm her. The spare room had been Kenneth's, Guy and Grace’s son, before he had joined the Air Force, as evidenced by the posters of fighter jets and rock stars taped to the walls. A battered stereo sat atop a child-sized roll top desk, paperback novels and compact discs were scattered across the rest. Grace had aired the room and it carried just the hint of Kenny’s cologne. Cassie stared out the window at a great, yellow, harvest moon and thought about the Williams family, who had been her surrogate aunt, uncle, and cousin since before she could remember.
Grace had offered her home and heart, permanently, and as much as it had hurt Cassie to do so, she'd turned her down. It wasn't just for fear of missing her opportunity, though that was real enough. She knew she must leave because of what she had found in the bottom drawer of her mother’s dresser.
A faded manila envelope, buried beneath a pile of faded sweaters, had contained an old, yellowing marriage certificate.
The single page, heavily creased and water stained, had been legible enough to decipher as being the record of her parent’s marriage. It looked to be the original and included their places and dates of birth, and occupations.
Cassie felt her eyes stinging as she read her father’s name in print for the first time. William Alfred Beckman.
The second item nestled beneath her mother's sweaters, shocked her even more. The handgun was a large caliber, maybe a .38, or a .357; Cassie wasn't familiar enough with revolvers to tell the difference.
The hole at the end of the short, blued barrel seemed enormous, as she gingerly set the gun on the bed beside her. She could see that it was loaded and a curious little padlock filled the trigger space. The lock had a keyhole in the center of it, but there was no key with the gun. Cassie was certain the ring of keys that the hospital nurse had given her, the ones from her mother's pocket, would have a key to fit that lock.
She had never known her mother to use a handgun, and she had never touched one.
There was a small, framed certificate on Cassie's bureau that she had earned years before at Girl Scout camp. She’d been given the NRA Marksman award after proving her competency with a .22 rifle on the camp's shooting range. In an area with as many rattlesnakes as Bowie, it was wise to know how to shoot a rifle safely. Cassie stared at the carved wooden grips of the big revolver, and then called for Guy.
He had recognized the gun right away, and smiled, carefully pointing the barrel at the floor and unloading the fat cartridges from the cylinder.
"I helped your mom pick out this gun," he had said. "I tried to talk her into something a little smaller, like a .22 magnum, or a .380, but she wanted this one," Guy laughed suddenly, "and boy-oh-boy could she shoot it! We must have killed a thousand pop cans out past the quarry, your mother, Grace, and I."
Cassie was shocked.
"My Mom…" she asked incredulously, "shot thisgun?"
"Sure," replied Guy, "she was an ace, I never understood how she could shoot a big .357 like that with those thin wrists of hers, but she did. Not long after she moved here, we went up to Tucson and took a handgun class, got verified and everything," the pastor sighed.
"We used to go out to the quarry 'most every weekend and target shoot,” he said. “It was cheap entertainment back then."
Cassie had stared at the revolver a little fearfully.
"I guess," Guy continued, "that this old hand-cannon is yours now, but I'm going to lock it up for safekeeping. If you decide you want to shoot it let me know and we'll go out to the quarry with Grace. If you like, sometime when you're back from school, we can go up to Tucson and you can take that safety course. After that, if you want it, it’s yours to take."
"Well," Cassie said, still dazed at this side of her mother that she had never known, "Let me think about it, I'm sure I'll want it eventually, maybe after I get out of school."
"That'll be just fine," Guy said, picking up the now-empty weapon and slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. He gathered the shells and put them in the other pocket.
"I'll get it cleaned up and oiled before I put it away," he said, "looks like your Mom kinda let it go the last few years…"
Guy's voice faltered and the room filled with silence, and she realized that her pastor and his wife must have been suffering almost as much as she, having been her mother’s best friends since before Cassie could remember.
Finally, Guy slapped his knees with his palms and stood.
"Well,” he said, “these boxes aren’t going to pack themselves…"
"Guy?" Cassie had whispered, unable to look up and meet his eyes, "Why did Mom want a gun like that?"
There was a long pause and after a few moments Cassie thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, clearing his throat, he spoke.
"Well Cass,” he’d said, “sometimes it can be scary living on your own, especially with a little one in the house. Way out here on the edge of town, you want to feel safe…"
There was another long pause, but he left the sentence hanging, slowly walking out of the bedroom. Cassie could hear the quiet, unintelligible murmur, as Guy spoke to his wife. Then the sound of moving and taping boxes resumed. Cassie wasn't sure how she felt about Guy's answer, but she knew this; there was more to it than he’d told her.
Sitting there, Cassie had pulled the marriage certificate back out of her pocket. For some reason she hadn't wanted Guy or Grace to see it. She unfolded it once more and studied her father's handwriting on the faded page, listening to the windy scratch of sand, like cat fur, whispering past the aluminum walls.
William Beckman, she read again, a man she had never met and of whom her mother refused to speak. His date of birth didn’t mean much to her, nor did the listing of his occupation as a fisherman; what started her heart beating hard was the cryptic entry for his place of birth. There, in what Cassie assumed was her father’s own rough script, were the words Just past Oysterville, WA.
The strange phrase had stuck in her consciousness like a burr, and she read the line over and over, sitting on the edge of her mother’s bed as their meager belongings were loaded into apple boxes from the Bowie Grocery.
Just past Oysterville, did it mean that William Beckman had been born somewhere called Oysterville? If so, why not just write that? If he had been born in the next town, why not put the name of thattown? Cassie rescued her mother’s atlas of the world from a box full of books and had found Oysterville at the very tip of the Long Beach Peninsula in Washington State. Her discovery, however, only added to the confusion, there was nothingpast Oysterville except for the Pacific Ocean to the West and Willapa Bay to the East.
As Cassie sat, the tattered atlas across her knees and a numb void of loss shadowing her heart, a sudden need, dark and simmering, flickered within her.
What if she went to this place, this Oysterville, and found somebody there who had known her parents, maybe even knew her father’s whereabouts? Could she find him? Could she track this William Beckman down and let him know the wife he had abandoned had lived and breathed and struggled and sacrificed to raise his child? That she had worked three jobs to put food in the belly of the daughter he had walked away from, and carved out a life in a run-down old trailer on the edge of the desert?
She could, no, she wouldtell him!
For her mother and for herself she would find this man and tell him that Katherine Belanger was dead. He would ask how, and what would she tell him?
Alone, in the cold early hours of morning, she had been struck by a drunk driver and left lying, broken and bleeding, in the street.
A drunk driver who had, himself, been found dead an hour later, hopelessly crushed beneath the crumpled remains
of his Cadillac, in a ditch along Interstate 10.
The fine white pages of the atlas had crumpled unconsciously in her fists.
No, she thought fiercely, I won't tell him anything, except that she’s dead. She would tell him this and then turn and walk away, as he had walked away.
When Cassie had closed and locked the door of that shabby, rented trailer for the last time, it was with a burning sense of purpose. That purpose had warmed her as she walked through the cold night to her borrowed room at the Williams’ house.
She would find out, for herself, who and what were just past Oysterville.
*
Cassie had made her plans, even as those around her took care of the details of her mother’s funeral. As much as she disliked the idea of lying to the Williams, she would do so, cashing in her ticket at the bus station and thumbing rides all the way to the West Coast.
The small amount of money she had saved for college (this she had already transferred to a Portland bank) now included the few hundred dollars that had remained in her mother’s savings account. With the cash from the bus ticket, she was sure she could spend the next several months searching for her father.
She had called the University and, despite what she had told Grace, there would be no problem holding her loan, and enrolling in the later, Fall courses.
Now, just a day later, as she stood under the bright blue awning that shielded her mother’s casket from the sun, Cassie began to doubt. She wondered what she’d really say when she found him, if she found him.