“You think he’s going to throw up?”
“I always did.”
“Good.” Cassie replied, "I hope he’s sick all night."
“Take it a little easy on him,” Tom murmured, “everyone slips now and then.”
“Yeah?” said Cassie, holding the door open, “Tell that to my mother!”
Tom looked at her, confused, then shook his head and walked out. Cassie slammed the door after him. The sound brought Jack momentarily out of his stupor and, groaning, he sat up on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
“Cassie,” he started, his voiced slurred and pained, “I’m…”
“Don’t,” Cassie hissed, the anger in her voice bringing Jack’s bloodshot eyes up to meet her own. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry!”
“What…” Jack started.
“Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry, Jack,” Cassie repeated as her voice broke and tears started down her cheeks.
She balled her fists in rage, fighting back the desire to leap at him, to lash out at the fog of confusion and the stink of alcohol that enveloped him. Her own stomach heaved, and for a moment Cassie thought she might be the one who needed the bucket. In the sound of Jack's slurred voice she could hear, again, her mother’s agonized cries for help and see the red taillights as they weaved away into the night. She could hear the driver’s drunken voice from beyond the grave, calling in inebriated cadence…
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”
Everything she had begun to admire and respect in Jack suddenly came crashing down around her in an avalanche of anger and disgust.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice low and hateful, “I’m sure you’re very sorry, you’ll be even sorrier the night you booze it up and kill somebody, if you don’t luck out and do yourself in the process!”
Jack flinched, his cheeks flushing at her words, his eyes widening, “What are you talking about…”
Cassie picked up her bag from the floor and rummaged through it for her Bible. From between the book’s pages, she pulled a scrap of newsprint and flung it in his direction, as the tears overwhelmed her and she began to cry.
“Here,” she cried, her voice cracking, “here’s what I’m talking about, you…you stinking drunk!” As the clipping fluttered to the ground at Jack’s feet, Cassie turned and ran, weeping, into the hall, slamming the door behind her.
Jack tried to stand, to follow her, but the spinning of the room brought him crashing back to the bed. He lie there for a moment, sheened in cold sweat, his stomach churning, and his eye fell on the piece of newspaper that Cassie had thrown at him. With trembling fingers, Jack reached down, and after three swipes, managed to catch hold of the clipping and bring it to his face.
With a great deal of effort, his eyes slowly focused on the scrap. Above the picture of a middle-aged woman was the headline “Nurse run down by drunk driver.” Jack felt his stomach lurch at the words, his mouth was parched and dry as the first sentence burned though the alcoholic fog of his brain.
Katherine Anne Belanger, 40, of Bowie, Arizona, was struck and killed by a drunk driver Tuesday evening in front of Bowie Adventist Medical Center.
The face in the picture swam before his eyes, his brain superimposing Cassie’s face over it. The tiny, shabby motel room began to spin in earnest and Jack realized, as the paper slipped from his fingers, that he was suddenly stone cold sober.
“Oh God,” he whispered, “oh my God…”
Without warning, Jack Leland burst into tears and, curling up like a child on the faded comforter, he sobbed until the room spun into blackness around him.
*
She is wandering in a dark, desolate place. A dank wind howls around her feet, bringing storms of dead leaves hissing along the flat ground. It feels like a graveyard, but there are no stones, at least none that she can see, marking the places of the dead. Cassie can hear, just above that mournful whisper, a voice far ahead, weeping and full of pain. She shivers with cold, drawing the thin, rose-colored blanket tightly around her. It is very cold and her bare toes are aching when she finally comes to the lip of a deep well. The voice drifts up from the bottom; someone is suffering, lost in the darkness below. A blood red moon suddenly rises over the edge of the featureless, shadowed horizon and, in a moment, it has reached its pinnacle, casting its bright crimson beams into the pit. Cassie leans as far as she dares, the fingers of the wind pulling her forward, clutching at her from the yawning chasm below.
At the bottom of the pit lays a man. The bloodlight strikes his face and it is Jack. Jack, ragged, bleeding and starved, his clothing is torn and ragged, caked with filth, gaunt ribs stretched with pale skin show through the rags he wears. Crisscrosses of raw, oozing lash marks cover his exposed back. Fresh bleeding wounds over a lifetime of scars. Jack's eyes are closed and his hands cover his ears. He is weeping.
"May the day of my birth perish," he cries, "and the night it was said, a boy is born! That day, may it turn to darkness; may God above not care about it; may no light shine upon it!"
The wind rises mournfully once more, as Jack repeats the words again and again, never opening his eyes, never unstopping his ears.
"May the day of my birth perish…"
Cassie calls to him, screams his name over the gale, but he can't hear her, his eyes are closed and can't see her.
"May God above not care …"
Over Jack's lament, she hears her mother's voice.
"You have to go down and get him, Cass," she whispers, "show him the way to get out…"
"May God above not care …"
Cassie woke up gasping, drenched in sweat and, over the painful hammering of her heart, the anguished words still echoed in her empty room.
"May God above not care …" she whispered.
Chapter Ten
The morning sun, streaming through the dusty motel window, finally roused Cassie from her fitful sleep. Her eyes still red and puffy, she winced at the headache that pounded beneath her temples from crying herself to sleep the night before, and glanced at the cheap clock radio on the bedside table; nine forty-five it read. If Jack had woken up from his stupor yet, he must have gone on without her.
“I hope he has the granddaddy of all hangovers!” she muttered to herself.
"Show him the way to get out…"
Cassie sat back on the bed as a wave of guilt and shame swept over her.
As mad as she was at Jack, and she wasstill mad, she knew the things she had said to him the night before had come from her own hurt and anger, and not from his drinking binge. Jack had let her tag along all the way back from Arizona, more than that, he had gone out of his way to become her friend and she had treated him like dirt the first time he disappointed her. Jack Leland hadn’t killed her mother and, as much as her own pain made her spurn alcohol, she knew that whatever reasons Jack had for drinking were his own and wouldn’t be resolved through bitterness and anger.
She might have had a chance of helping him, if last night hadn’t gone the way it did. Jack had started to open up to her at the restaurant, who knew what might have come of that? Now though, he was most likely on his way home again, miles up the highway and glad to be rid of her.
Cassie gathered her belongings and repacked her duffel bag. She would hike up to the highway and see if she could thumb a ride north towards Washington.
As her hand reached for the knob of the motel door, she remembered…
The books!
How could she be so dumb? Jack wouldn’t have left town until the shipment of books arrived! Maybe she could still catch him and apologize. Though he wasn't likely to forgive her, at least she could try.
Cassie decided to check the café first, and if Jack weren’t there, she would walk down to the bookstore, where he'd said he would wait all day.
Breathlessly she left the motel and headed across the parking lot.
It was a bright morning, and the air was thick with the scent of the ocean, as gulls soared and swooped o
verhead, calling raucously to one another in their endless search for food.
Jack was in the café. Seated, again toward the back, he had a cup of coffee and an unopened newspaper on the table before him, but seemed interested in neither. Instead, he sat watching the door, his eyes lost in thought. When his gaze caught Cassie’s, the girl saw a flash of great relief and even greater embarrassment, as he raised his hand. Suddenly Cassie was mortified, wishing she were anywhere else in the world but here.
How could she explain herself to Jack, apologize for the way she had treated him? Her feet felt like great lead weights as she slowly made her way down the aisle to where Jack waited.
“Sit,” Jack said softly, gesturing to the seat across from his own, “please.”
Cassie sat, unsure what to do, and an agonizing minute passed. Jack cleared his throat twice, fumbling with his napkin and silverware, and Cassie was about to speak when the waitress sauntered over to their table to lay a menu in front of her.
“Here ya go, Hon," she said, smiling at Cassie, "I thought this one was going to take up roots here waiting for you.” She gave Jack a withering look, her hands resting on ample hips. “How about you, Diamond Jim, a fresh cup of coffee or do you prefer it cold?”
Jack graced her with a sour smile. “Fresh coffee would be great, thank you.” The waitress snorted and left with Jack’s cup.
A long silence passed. Cassie glanced up, feeling Jack’s gaze on her and he didn’t look away, his face pale, his eyes wide and far-off. Cassie had to fight the urge to squirm, growing nervous and self-conscious beneath that relentless stare until, finally, Jack blinked, shaking like a man waking up from a dream and realizing that he wasn’t asleep.
“Well,” said Jack,”that was quite a soap opera we performed last night.” Cassie, who couldn’t think of a thing to say, only nodded.
He sighed. “I don’t suppose that sorry begins to cover my behavior but, for what it’s worth, I am.”
His words took a moment to register in Cassie’s brain. Hewas apologizing to her! Cassie blinked, and blinked again, trying to force out some response.
“I’ll understand,” Jack continued, his eyes on the table in front of him, “if you’d rather find your own way from here on out, but I’d like to at least buy you breakfast and part as friends." He sighed again. "I’m really very embarrassed and very sorry that you had to see me that way. It doesn’t happen often and, even then, I usually have at least a shred of dignity and find my own way home. I guess…um…”
“Wait,” Cassie interrupted in a rush, “please don’t say you’re sorry again. I came down here to apologize to you!”
"What?" Jack said.
"I let you wander off alone last night," she said, "when I knew you were hurt, and then I used your condition as an excuse to vent on you for stuff that you didn’t have anything to do with." Cassie’s lip began to tremble, "I thought we were friends, but I didn’t act like one last night.”
There was a long pause as they each, hesitantly, looked up from the table to catch the other’s eye.
“Well,” said Jack, “I guess we owed each other an apology, and, as that’s been said," Jack took a deep breath, "I think we should put it behind us and get some breakfast.”
“Really?” asked Cassie, “You mean it?”
“Sure,” Jack replied, smiling, “unless you’d rather I keep apologizing all the way to Long Beach.”
Cassie laughed with relief. When they had finished their meal, Jack set down his fork and looked up, he seemed nervous, glancing at her and then away.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began.
“Yes?”
“Well," Jack said, "maybe I could give you a ride all the way to Portland, now that you’ve gotten some material for your book." Jack toyed with his silverware, barely making eye contact.
"That way," he went on, "you wouldn’t have to spend any more money on a motel, and if you had any questions or needed any material you could just call me and I could e-mail you what you needed. You could get in on the summer classes that way, instead of waiting until fall."
Cassie thought furiously, trying to come up with an answer.
“Um," she stammered, "I was hoping to get some pictures while I was there. Maybe talk to some people and get a feel for the place myself.”
Jack nodded, stirring his coffee.
“Yeah, there’s that." He seemed defeated, but pressed on, "I was just thinking that it might be nice to get an early start, and we could cut east at Tillamook this afternoon and have you there by nightfall.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, Jack, but I really need to spend some time on the Peninsula, I need to get it firsthand.”
“Of course,” Jack replied, chewing his lip, “of course you do. Oh, I thought you’d probably want this back.”
Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a small paperback book, removed the newspaper clipping, and handed it to Cassie.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Jack said softly, and his voice seemed to quaver for a moment, “it must be very hard.” Cassie looked up and, in the bright sunlight shining through the restaurant window; Jack’s eyes glistened as though on the verge of tears.
“Well,” he said suddenly, jumping to his feet, “we had better go see if the pinhead has gotten my books in yet or not.”
Cassie had the uncomfortable feeling there was more to Jack’s reaction than she was catching, and she frowned as she slipped the obituary back into her Bible and followed Jack out to the van.
They spent the rest of the afternoon waiting in the Spring Leaves bookstore. The shop was on the first floor of a very old building on the main street of town. “Right between the kite store and taffy shop,” Jack had commented wryly, “just like mine.”
Two worn, concrete steps led up to the main door and into the small, cluttered shop. The front room was perfectly square, all four walls covered, floor to ceiling, with books. Several tables filled the open space, stacked high with works by local writers, cookbooks, and the latest best-selling novels.
Amid the tables were two overstuffed leather chairs, the one nearest the window had a sign taped to the high back that read: Sebastian’s Throne, sit at your own risk!
Curled in the seat of the chair was Sebastian himself, a massive gold tomcat with piercing green eyes and white tufted ears. He lay contentedly, in sure authority of all he surveyed, his great ginger bulk filling the seat from arm to arm. Cassie felt sure, looking at him, that no one evertried to move him from his throne.
In the very center of the room sat a small island with a cash register and a wheezing old monochrome computer monitor. Cassie’s nose twitched at the smell of sage-scented incense burning in a copper dragon by the register. The pinhead, as Jack had referred to him, was a slight, balding man with round glasses and a pronounced lisp. Full of nervous energy, he spent the afternoon bustling about his shop and harrying the small handful of patrons that wandered in. Cassie watched him move the same stack of paperbacks three times in an hour.
The two men traded intermittent small talk, but their conversation was strained, and the owner seemed to be afraid of offending Jack in some way, possibly concerned about what the larger man might do if angered.
Jack, for his part, did nothing to encourage this perception, but nothing, Cassie noticed, to discourage it either.
After perusing the shelves, he had promptly relocated the cat from his throne to the floor and, taking a magazine from a nearby rack, began to read.
Sebastian had stalked from the room, not to be seen again that day.
Around two that afternoon, as Cassie returned to the shop after wandering down Main Street in search of an ice-cream cone, she found Jack standing at the cash register, scribbling out a check. The nervous little owner stood, with a pasted-on smile, gazing longingly into a box of perhaps twenty-five old books. Jack signed the check with a flourish and even shook the pinhead's hand as he turned to go, tucking the box safely under his arm. Cassie could tell by th
e excited flush of his cheeks the volumes he had wanted were there.
As they loaded the box in the van, Jack could no longer contain himself.
“They're perfect!” he exclaimed, clapping Cassie on the back. “Muchbetter condition than I had hoped, the buyer is going to be ecstatic!”
“That’s it, isn’t it?" Cassie laughed. "It’s not about making the sale; it's about finishing the quest. That’s what you love, being able to find the one book that no one else can, and deliver it. It's your holy grail!”
Jack stared at her a moment and then, throwing back his head, roared with laughter,
“Of course that’s it!" He cried, "Did you think it was the money? It’s the hunt that matters!” Jack laughed once more, rubbing his hands together like Ebenezer Scrooge at his counting table.
"Now, young lady," he said, "you and I are going to celebrate! The finest restaurant on the Oregon Coast is just up the road.”
“Oysters?” Cassie laughed.
“That may be on the menu, yes." Jack grinned, "The Queen Victoria makes thebest Oysters en Brochette. You'll love it!"
*
The Queen Victoria Restaurant had once been an enormous farmhouse. More than a century old, it had been renovated a decade earlier by a gourmet chef who had decided to retire from working in Paris and open a small restaurant in her hometown.
Creamy white alpine lace covered each of the dozen or so small tables scattered throughout the dining room, and dinners were served on fine china with silver. Cassie glanced surreptitiously about the room, feeling a little underdressed in her jeans and hiking boots. Jack noticed and smiled.
"Don't worry about it," he chuckled, "this is the coast. Formal dining wear includes beach shorts and Birkenstocks."
Cassie grinned, feeling less conspicuous when she noticed that several other patrons looked as though they might have just walked up from a day on the beach.
Just Past Oysterville: Shoalwater Book One Page 12
