The Last American Martyr

by Tom Winton; Rolffimages

  The Last American Martyr

  By

  Tom Winton

  Every now and then one small soul rises from the crowded depths of obscurity and causes the entire earth to wobble on its axis. This last happened in 2008 when an unemployed doorman, in a secondhand Goodwill suit, stepped onto the worldwide stage in Stockholm and accepted The Nobel Prize for Literature. But when Thomas Soles returns home with the prize threats await him and he must flee.

  The Last American Martyr

  By

  Tom Winton

  Copyright ©2011 by Tom Winton.

  First electronic edition published by Tom Winton

  Published in the United States of America with international distribution.

  Cover Design by Rolffimages

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication:

  To my wife, Blanche, for all her sacrifices and undying optimism.

  Special thanks to Carole Yates Williams and Diane Nelson for all their help.

  Chapter 1

  Most folks in White Pine thought the man they knew as Darius McClure was quite eccentric, at the very least a borderline hermit. That in itself was quite odd since most residents of this rural northern Maine town put such a high premium on their own sense of seclusion. After all, more than a few locals had been known to wag or aim a twelve-gauge in order to preserve their own privacy. Occasionally, they pulled the trigger.

  Everybody in White Pine knew that Clyde Therault, the town’s most industrious burglar, and Norm Flagg, a fifth generation townie with a penchant for peeking in windows, both mysteriously vanished within a period of two years. Both men, who lived alone, were out of the picture for weeks before the regulars at Edna’s Country Café realized they were missing. Since none of the townsfolk had any great love for either of the culprits, the revelation of their sudden departure was quickly forgotten, or simply no longer mentioned.

  Curtis Bass, the town’s part-time constable, quickly wrote off Therault and Flagg’s disappearances as just that, disappearances. The gladly accepted consensus, though nobody actually believed it, was that the two were probably killed in hunting or snowmobile accidents somewhere deep in these North Woods.

  But it was different with Darius McClure. Nobody really disliked him. How could they? Nobody really knew him. The only time anyone ever saw him was when he drove his maroon Subaru through the village, usually heading to or from the dirt logging roads that run deep into the endless pine forests up here. Most folks assumed he went there to hunt, maybe poach a deer or a moose, although nobody ever saw him come back with either.

  But I know better. I was his mailman. And after a while, I'm proud to say, I had the good fortune of becoming his friend. I was the only one in these parts who ever got to know Darius. I knew well and good he didn’t go out on those logging roads to poach. He only went there to jog. Sixty years old and he still did three miles a day, five times a week.

  Despite his exercise regimen, he did like to swizzle a few beers every afternoon. He used to tell me, “Jake, I’ve always been a morning creature. When first light shows and the wildlife are most active, that’s the only time of day I have even a semblance of hope for this damaged planet. By mid-afternoon, whatever inkling of optimism I may have had always fades. The earth seems to slow on its axis, and it’s time for me to self-sedate.”

  Along with his beer, Darius liked his cigarettes, too. Claiming to be “a judicious smoker,” he usually stayed within his quota of ten per day. But the real kicker was, despite his vices, he was a self-proclaimed “pisca/vegetarian.” That’s what he called himself because, for the most part, he ate only fish and vegetables. Nobody else knew that either. If they had, hunting would have been ruled out and people really would have wondered what he was up to on those logging roads.

  I must admit, when he first showed up, I was as curious about Darius as everyone else, probably more so since I went by his isolated trailer five times a week. Why would anyone from “away,” especially a man getting on in his years, come to a place like White Pine? It's so remote up here that most every township within fifty miles is identified by a number instead of a name. Virtually no one lives in places like T13 R10 WELS, T13 R11 WELS, and so on, and so on. Why would Darius come up here, buy Norm Flagg’s abandoned trailer for past due taxes, and hunker down all alone?

  The first year I delivered his mail out on Split Branch Road, Darius and I rarely exchanged a word. Oh sure, if he was outside blowing snow, cutting grass, or washing his Subaru, we’d give each other a quick nod or wave. A few times, when I couldn’t fit into his mailbox an unusually large batch of those books he was always getting, we exchanged polite hellos at his door. But that was it. Even if he wanted to talk, his yappy little terrier, “Solace,” made it nearly impossible.

  At first I couldn't fathom why anybody would call such a hyped-up Jack Russell “Solace.” A short time later, I would fully understand. As time went on, I learned many more things from Darius McClure. Things that never entered my mind before I met him and never would had I not. Things like why an aging man who'd once been so gregarious and full of life would divorce himself from all of society.

  Darius' place was the last stop on my route, way at the end of Split Branch, atop a small hill. The last half of that godforsaken dirt road is so full of ruts and holes, the fillings in your teeth chatter loose if you dare drive too fast. Steering along that thing is a full-body workout—you're constantly zigging and zagging, tapping the accelerator, and stomping the brake. When there was a heavy snow, or in the spring during mud season, after two feet of frozen earth thawed, there were days I couldn't even attempt to deliver Darius' mail. That road is nothing more than a two-mile, bone-shaking swath; meandering through trees so dark, dense, and imposing, you sometimes feel imprisoned.

  The first time I ever shared anything more than a hint of recognition with Darius back there, was in May of 2010. Lucky for him it was one of those days when his books wouldn't fit in the mailbox.

  I pulled into his unpaved driveway, parked behind his Outback, and killed the engine. As I reached for his Publisher's Weekly and the books, I heard the loud, grating buzz of a chainsaw coming from the tree line behind the trailer. Darius was obviously doing some work there. Being a fine, crisp spring day, and since the front door was wide open behind the screen door, I figured I'd just leave everything right there.

  After plunking the books on the wooden entry deck, I started back down the steps. Again I heard the rising whine a chainsaw makes after severing a thick branch. That in itself was no big deal. But then the machine shut off abruptly, and that was odd. Next came the telltale cracking of smaller limbs, as a far heftier one made its way to the forest floor. There was a thud. Then there was a holler.

  Echoing through the woods in all directions, Darius yelled, “Ohhhh Shhhhhit! At the same time, as if on command, Solace started raising all sorts of holy-hell back there. This wasn't the usual incessant barking and yapping she'd do whenever I pulled up to the mailbox or came to the door. This sounded like an entire pack of crazed terriers had just treed an animal but with three times the urgency and squealing.

  Beating hee
ls around the trailer, I saw Darius back in the trees, hanging from a thick pine limb about thirty feet up. With his back to me, legs flailing wildly, he yelled at Solace to “GET THE HELL OUT OF THE WAY.” It was obvious his arms were about to give out.

  “HOLD ON, MISTER McCLURE!” I shouted, tromping through a shady maze of thick tree trunks, trying not to trip on the undergrowth and bed of winter-fallen branches, “I'LL HELP YOU!”

  “The ladder,” he croaked now, his voice quickly losing strength, “it's lying in front of me.”

  His defeated tone told me he couldn't hold on much longer. This was one thick limb he was clutching. Unlike hanging from a bar, he couldn't wrap his fingers around it for a better grip. This was all palms and wrists.

  In a voice just short of a shout, yet calm as I could be in such a circumstance, I said, “Don't you worry! Just hang on there!” Then, bending down to pick up the fully-extended aluminum ladder, “I'll have this back up in three seconds.”

  A couple of rungs at the far end were tangled in a small evergreen, but I wasn't about to tell Darius that. There wasn't enough time to run to the end of the ladder, undo the thing, then come back and raise it. I had no choice. It was like lifting an impossibly long lever with a boulder on the far end.

  Here I was, straining to dislodge the cumbersome monstrosity, and Solace was only adding to the chaos with all her yelping, howling, and jumping around. Hot adrenaline coursed the veins in both my arms as if I'd main-lined it. My hands trembled uncontrollably and my biceps strained, but somehow I managed to free the thing. Under less urgent conditions, I could never have done it.

  In a voice so low, exhausted, and meshed with defeat, I barely heard Darius up there saying, “I can't hold on any longer. Get out of the way, now! I'm going to drop.”

  “Nope! Here it is!” I said, guiding the ladder up to the limb, alongside his right hand. “Put your right foot on the nearest rung. Ahhh yup, that's it. Now pull your body weight onto it and grab the ladder. I'm holding onto it. Don't worry, it isn't going anywhere. That's it ... you've got it.”

  Ever so slowly, Darius lowered himself. The thirty-foot ladder bowed and danced dangerously under his weight. My hands began to cramp, but I held on with all I had left. Solace’s frantic, desperate barks kept echoing through the woods.

  With each rung Darius descended, the whole thing wobbled, imperiling his life. After each uncertain step he hugged the rails like a long-lost lover until it stopped moving. The two inches of contact the end of the ladder made with the limb shortened with his every step. If it had gotten to the point where it tottered just a wee bit more, or it slid a few inches along the slick pine limb, it would have been all over. Three men couldn't have stopped it from coming down.

  Darius was one exhausted man when he stepped on the ground.

  “Terra firma,” he said, dropping his head, still leaning on the ladder, his lungs working as if he'd been dunked underwater far too long, “Thought I'd never stand on solid ground again. Thought for sure it was time for the old dirt nap.”

  He then looked down at Solace, jumping and clawing at his thighs. “OK, OK, girl, come on up.” Extending his scratched red palms up and out, the terrier elevated to them as if on springs. “Alright, alright,” he said as the relieved dog slobbered his face.

  “Thanks for helping me out,” he said, extending his right hand to me, hanging on to the wriggling dog with the other. “I'm sorry, you've been delivering my mail for months now, and I still don't know your name.”

  “Jake ... Jake Snow,” I said, and as we shook hands, I did a quick study of his face.

  Every time I’d gotten a quick glimpse of him in the past, when I’d handed him his books and mail through a partially opened doorway, I’d always thought he looked familiar for some reason. But I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out why. Eventually, I just assumed that someone I knew, or had known, must have had similar features. But his face was not all that ordinary. Despite his age, you’d still have to consider him somewhat handsome. And though his eyes seemed a bit tired after what he’d just been through, they jumped right out at you. He had eyes that nobody would forget. They were pale blue like the shallows of a tropical ocean, and they belied his age as much as his lean, taut body did.

  As I let go of his hand I said, “Hey, you don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad as hell I happened along at the right time.”

  “Me too … I suppose. No … don't take that literally, I'm just kidding. Thank you very much.”

  Now that he was catching his breath, he studied me a bit more closely. As he assessed my face, he asked, “Have you got time for a beer, Jake Snow?”

  Before the three of us filed into his trailer, I picked up Darius’ books and magazine from the deck. Once we were inside he asked me to have a seat, then went into the adjoining kitchen to pour Solace some fresh water and to fetch us two cold brews.

  I'd been inside his trailer a few times before, when Norm Flagg was living in it. When Flagg was there the place was filthy and a shambles. Food-encrusted dishes were strewn everywhere like a scattered collection of drab, round frescoes. Soiled clothes were all over the thin carpet, dropped where they had been shed. Two pillows, gray with grime, laid to rest atop a worn and filthy sofa. The only things Flagg had on the paneled walls were a few naked center-folds from cheap girlie magazines and a one-eyed deer head that looked like it had been through one too many garage sales.

  But now the place was much different. The furnishings were again sparse and inexpensive, but everything was immaculate. The second thing to hit me when I walked in this time was Darius' books. Three of the living room walls were lined with hip-high, shelves full of them. On the back wall, beneath a window looking into the forest where Darius had almost bought it minutes earlier, were two blue recliners. A table and lamp sat between them. On the table were an empty ashtray and a well-worn, hardcover copy of “A People's History of the United States.” Though I'd never heard of the book before, I had delivered to the White Pine Library copies of Publisher's Weekly, like the ones neatly stacked beneath the table.

  As I peered around the room some more, I noticed something else. Hanging just to the right of the front window was a thin-framed photograph of a very attractive young lady. Dressed like they did back in the 1960's, she had long, sleek, black hair, parted in the middle. Her face was one to die for. Next to that photograph, in a much larger frame, was the front page of a newspaper. There was a picture on that too, a large one. From where I sat, across the narrow room, it looked like Darius, shaking hands with another man.

  I got up out of the chair, went over to it, and took a closer look. It was Darius alright, on the front page of the New York Times. Dressed in a suit and tie, he was receiving an award.

  Hearing the first beer can pop and fizz in the kitchen by now, feeling like a snoop, I quickly read the headline. It said, “Nobel Prize Goes to Controversial Author Thomas Soles.”

  I’ll be a son of a gun! I thought. I knew he looked familiar!

  Then I scurried back across the room and fell back into the recliner just as Darius McClure/Thomas Soles returned with two beers.

  Chapter 2

  “I hope Busch Light works for you.” he said, handing me an ice cold one.

  “Sure ... sure, that's great,” I said, struggling to sound nonchalant. But that name, “Thomas Soles,” kept echoing inside my head along with a stream of questions. What the hell is this all about? What's he doing here, in a tiny, isolated town like White Pine? Why's he using an alias? What—.

  McClure/Soles sat down and lit a cigarette. Then he got right up again, turned on the ceiling fan just above us, and sat back down. He looked across the table between us and said, “Thanks again for saving my life, Jake. Another minute ... it would have been all over.”

  I detected in his words a slight, time-worn, New York accent. Many years and miles had probably passed since its inception, but it was a dialect, and it would fit somebody named Thomas Soles far better than it would a
Darius McClure.

  “You're more than welcome, Mister McClure.” I said, feeling a little ridiculous calling him that now. “Anybody else would have done the same thing.”

  “Yes ... maybe,” he said. Then he paused as if he was trying and failing to think of one person he knew who would have helped him.

  “I don't believe in fate, destiny, or any of that bunk,” he went on, “but you happened along at the precise moment I was hanging on for my life. Heh, heh ... no pun intended.”

  Only slightly creased at the corners, those blue eyes then lit up like a teenager's on prom night. Beneath the longish silver hair that obscured part of his forehead, I swear, those eyes talked. Looking back, knowing him as well as I do now, I realize they were saying, “I've seen most of what this world has to offer, Jake. There isn't much that has gotten by me. I’ve been alone for a long time now, and I’m eager to share what I've learned with someone like you. But for now, for this moment, I'm just damned glad you're here. I think you and I just might become friends, but I have to be careful … very careful. I'm sorry.”

  “Mister McClure,” I said, “I don't want to cross any boundaries here, you know, sound disrespectful or anything, but you've got to be more careful next time. You're never supposed to fully extend a ladder, barely secure it thirty feet up then climb to the top.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” he said, “and you're a hundred percent right. I don't have a whole hell of a lot of experience with such things.” He tapped his cigarette in the ashtray twice then went on. “You know ... most people, particularly folks my age, don't like to admit when they're wrong. Politics, religion, socio-economic views, it doesn't matter. Nobody wants to fess up to being wrong about anything anymore. Despite all my typical human shortcomings, I like to think I'm smarter than that. I sure hope I'm intelligent enough to know when I'm wrong and humble enough to admit it. Hell, the older I get, the more I realize how little I actually do know. There’s an awful lot of gray area in this business we call life. It's very unfortunate, Jake, but most people can’t see beyond the black or the white. They just can't seem to get past the perceptions they’ve cemented in their minds.”