As full of himself as he was, and as much as Elaina and I wanted to bolt out of there, he had one unit we thought was perfect. It was an eleven-year-old, thirty-foot, Class A motor home. Forget about the age, this Winnebago was cherry, and it only had 31,000 miles on the odometer. It looked a streamlined, dressed up miniature bus on the outside, and the inside made our apartment look like a depression-era flat. Supposedly, it only had one previous owner. Whether it did or it didn’t, we could easily see it had been loved. On its huge, panoramic windshield they had a price of $18,999.
After looking around it, inside it, and under it, we went for a spin. It felt awfully strange sitting so high off the road as I steered the big wheel, but the unit ran beautifully.
I would have bought it on the spot. With the signals Elaina was sending me I knew she would have, too. But I wanted to check out that other dealer first. I also wanted to feel out our new friend, Ronald C. Kincaid, to see how flexible he was on the price. After telling him we wanted to look further (much to his obvious chagrin) I asked him what his best price would be. Of course, he tried to drag us into the office to “talk,” but I let him know I wasn’t yet ready for that charade. He said they might take $17,500, plus tax, prep fees, and this and that. When I told him we might be back in an hour or so to talk, instead of being hopeful that he might have a sale, he looked at us as if we’d just yanked a commission check out of his breast pocket. As much as his demeanor bothered the hell out of me, something else irked me even more. Twice, during his pushy sales pitch, he stopped midsentence, looked closely at my face, and asked, “Are you sure we’ve never met? You look very familiar.”
Though we hated to, Elaina and I did go back to see Kincaid. The salesman at the second dealership had been a true gentleman and ever so helpful. He asked us all kinds of questions so he could help us choose a vehicle that would not only fit our needs but our budget as well. But as hard as we looked, we couldn’t find anything we liked as much as the one at the first place.
After going round and round with Kincaid and his manager for what seemed like half the day, but in reality was only an hour, we finally agreed on a deal. After that, when Elaina had gone to the ladies room, the general manager told me that this had been the hardest time he’d ever had “giving away” an RV. I just smiled and handed him a deposit.
After that, Elaina and I drove right over to the local branch of our bank and withdrew the funds. Fortunately, we got there ten minutes before their noon Saturday closing time. Soon after that, with Elaina behind me in the rental car, I rolled our new home out of the lot. We’d paid only $15,000—out the door! That included tax, title, license plates the works. We not only got a fantastic price, but the manager ended up eating all of the dealership’s standard, nonsensical fees because I absolutely would not pay them.
After returning the Taurus right there in Cherry Hill, Elaina hopped into the RV with me. We were absolutely ecstatic. As I drove away from the Avis lot she raced up and down our new home on wheels checking out every nook and cranny. She was like a little girl on an Easter egg hunt. She finally plopped into the plush, oversized passenger seat next to me just as I steered the behemoth back onto the Jersey Turnpike. Sitting high, high above the road, all smiles, we felt as if we were perched on top of the world and it was rotating beneath us.
For the time being at least, all our happiness and excitement seemed to shrink our fears again. I can’t describe with words how good it made me feel to see Elaina so excited and at ease after what we’d been through. I knew well and good we should savor this relief from our newly imposed mental bondage. I wanted to taste it, chew it slowly; make it last before digesting it. But something new was gnawing at me now. Something I wasn’t going to bring up and let ruin all our well-deserved joy.
I did not like the idea that after Elaina and I had signed the paperwork, and she’d left me alone with Kincaid and the GM, Kincaid managed to put my name and face together. He’d finally realized who I was, and I did not like it one bit. Bad enough he knew the make, model, year, and color of the RV we would be driving, but there was even more. I had no choice but to also give him our cell number. He needed it so that when the permanent license plates arrived from New York he could call us and forward them to wherever we might be staying. I realized I just might be letting my imagination get out of hand. That the odds were huge nothing would ever become of this. But just the same, I did not like that guy. And with our lives possibly in very real danger, I didn’t like having any bases uncovered. As much as that scenario with Kincaid and his boss bothered me, I decided not to tell Elaina about it. She already had enough on her mind.
After driving only sixty miles or so, I asked Elaina if she wanted to stop and find a campground. We hadn’t gone far, but it was already crowding four in the afternoon. We’d gotten up very early that morning, accomplished a lot, and were beginning to tire. Driving the RV had been a barrel of fun, but being new at it demanded constant vigilance. I also figured we’d be much better off driving through Baltimore and D.C. early the next day; a Sunday morning. Lord knows we had nothing but time. Well, at least that’s what we thought.
We exited I-95 in a very nice Maryland town called Aberdeen. We needed some supplies and there were all kinds of shopping right there near the interstate. All the big chain-stores were well represented in this squeaky-clean business district, but we really hoped to find a mom and pop place. We didn’t have any luck, but we did manage to find one small supermarket with an unfamiliar name. And after parking the big rig in the far corner of the lot, we went in to buy groceries, beer, wine, and ice. The ice was a must since the fridge hadn’t been plugged in yet and would take hours to get cold after we hooked up at a campground.
Surprisingly, the store had a fairly good selection of ball caps in one of its aisles. Believing that hats just might add another small degree of anonymity to our appearance, we each bought one. Elaina and I had to search for a few minutes, but we managed to find a couple that didn’t have corporate or team logos on them. We wouldn’t have cared if the store was giving them away, neither of us would ever allow ourselves to become walking billboards for some corporation, or a billionaire-owned sports team.
As soon as we got back to the camper, we removed the tags from our new caps, and put them on immediately. Elaina looked adorable the way she tipped the bill up on her burgundy one, and I told her exactly that. With a contented smile still on those full lips of hers, she said I looked real outdoorsy in my brown version. No matter how good, bad or indifferent they may have looked, we made a pact right there and then. Neither of us would ever take them off in public.
We spent that night in our camper parked in the back of a Cracker Barrel restaurant. Being new RVers, we hadn’t a clue that most campgrounds as far north as we were had already closed for the winter. Nevertheless, after storing all the food and ice and having a couple of drinks and dinner, we cuddled up in the back bedroom and slept like two sleep-deprived infants. The next morning, feeling all rested, chipper and cozy in our new home, we decided not to shoot straight to Florida. There certainly was no reason to rush. Neither of us had ever seen the Great Smoky Mountains in Western North Carolina, and now that we had the opportunity, we figured why not. It was still autumn and maybe not too late to see the leaves turning up there.
Benign as our reasons were, the decision to go to the Smokies would soon turn out to be an unfathomable mistake.
Chapter 6
The morning of November 2nd was the fifth time we had woken up in the Winnebago. We were having a ball in it, and Elaina had the tiny kitchen all set up just the just way she wanted. It was our second day in the Asheville area, and the weather forecast promised another unseasonably-mild autumn day. Sitting at a picnic table outside the camper at first light, we were already working on our second cup of coffee. As the new dawn greeted the forest around us, illuminating a spectacle of scarlet and gold leaves, Elaina whispered so as not to disturb the other campers.
“Honey, what do you sa
y we drive up to the Blue Ridge Parkway this morning? Everyone is saying that it’s utterly gorgeous.”
“Sure,” I said, admiring the natural beauty all around us, “I guess it’s safe.”
“What’s safe, Tom? We don’t know how safe we are sitting right here. We can’t just lie down and die. We’re going to go right on enjoying ourselves. Yeah … sure, we still have to be vigilant, but that’s it.”
I pulled a Carlton from my pack, tapped the end of it on the wooden picnic table. You’re right, honey, freak it, we’re going to have an experience we’ll never forget. By the way, we’re going to have to buy one of those little cameras. What do they call them…digital?”
“Yesss,” she said raising her brows in an exaggerated fashion, going popeyed on me. “And guess who’s going to end up figuring how to work the thing.”
“All right, all right, quit picking on me. So what if I’m a bit, what do they call it today, electronically challenged?”
“I’d like to get one today ... hey, do you hear that? Shhhh, listen.”
From somewhere just behind the tree line came a loud knock-knock-knock as if someone was banging one of the tree trunks with an undersized hammer.
“Yeaaah, I hear it. It sounds like…”
“Look Tom,” Elaina interrupted, “There it is. See it.”
Flying from the bough of a tall pine tree, with the sun’s first soft rays setting it aglow, was the largest woodpecker we’d ever seen. A full foot and a half in length, it looked a little goofy, yet majestic, at the same time. It had a tall red crest atop its head and a white line running down its blackish neck. As it flew right above us, it called out as if it was scolding us. A loud, irregular kik-kikkik-kik-kik resonated throughout the campground and woods.
* * *
About an hour later, on the way to the Blue Ridge Parkway, we made a quick stop at a Wal-Mart. For the first time in as long as I can remember, we splurged. For many years we’d been splitting paper towels in half, cutting out grocery coupons, buying day-old bread. This day we sprung for that camera, and two reasonably-priced pairs of binoculars. On the way to the checkout, Elaina spotted A Field Guide to the Birds East of the Rockies, which we also bought. Minutes later, as I drove to the parkway, she checked the guide and found out the bird we’d seen was a Pileated Woodpecker.
The views from the Blue Ridge were absolutely breathtaking on that fall morning. Beyond every twist and turn, the panoramic visions of the Great Smoky Mountains were nothing short of astounding. Guaranteed, anyone who visits this place will leave with full color, mental snapshots indelibly forged in their mind. Folds of smooth rolling mountains stretch out in seemingly endless rows, in every direction, for as far as one can see. Mystical blue “smoke” rising from the countless peaks only intensified the magnificence surrounding us. Elaina and I just had to pull over to a small parking area and get out of the camper.
“Look at this, Tom,” she said in awe, “look at the colors. It’s like a red, orange, and gold quilt has been spread over every inch of these mountains. This is unbelievable.”
She took some photographs with the new camera, and then we just stood there for a few moments. Neither of us said a word. It was as if being in the midst of such beauty, we were partaking in a religious experience. Eventually, though, Elaina broke the silence. She’d noticed a nature trail leading down into the woods.
“Hey,” she said, “let’s take a walk. C’mon, Tom.”
“I don’t know. You sure you want to?”
“Oh, don’t be an old poop, let’s go!” she said, brimming with excitement.
With the new binoculars hanging from our necks, I said, “Shit yes, what the hell.”
I locked the Winnebago, and we carefully walked down a steep incline leading into the trees.
Happy as a teenager on prom night, she slung her arm around my waist as we entered the woods, and I did the same to her. Looking up into my eyes she squeezed my side and said, “We’re going to have one hell of a time on this trip, Tom. Can you imagine what it’s going to be like in Colorado and Montana this spring? What it’s going to be like in…”
The shot came from a high-powered rifle. There was no warning. Coming from the trees in front of us, the ear-splitting blast sounded like it was about fifty yards away. A cold chill froze my spine, and for just a splinter of that second, shock and confusion numbed my brain.
With my arm still around her waist, I felt Elaina jolt backwards. Reflexively, I tightened my grip on her and stiffened my arm, but it did no good. I could not stop her. My wife, my soul mate, my confidante, my life, lifted into the air and flew six feet backwards.
Time stood still. Oh my good God in heaven, I thought, this can’t be happening. But it was, and Elaina went down, back first, on the dusty trail. I saw her head bounce off the dirt and snap forward. Her burgundy cap flew off and blood of the same color was all over the front of her white sweatshirt. Yanking my head back around I screamed into the woods, “Nooooo, you mother fuckerrr!!! Come get me! Come get me now you fucking animal!”
Then I spun around, took two steps back, and fell knees to the ground alongside Elaina. As I held her in my arms, her cheek next to mine, I heard rustling leaves and snapping branches. I didn’t know if the shooter was heading towards me or taking off in the opposite direction. I hoped he was coming for me. Holding her by the back of her head, feeling the dirt in her short hair, my wife took her last shallow breaths.
“Elaina, Elaina, nooo, please God nooo,” I pleaded.
But in a matter of seconds, the inevitable moment arrived. Just before it did, Elaina spoke her last words. No, she whispered them, just four words. So weak were they that, had we not still been cheek to cheek, I would never have heard them. As she left to meet her maker, she said, “Tom … please … be careful.” Warm tears then coursed my cheeks and dripped onto Elaina’s. As I wept her body shuddered and quivered with mine.
Then, not a moment too soon, I spoke softly in her ear. “Don’t worry, honey, you won’t be alone for long. I promise, I’ll come to get you.”
I don’t know how long I laid there holding my Elaina, but I stayed with her on that mountain trail long after her body went cold. I can’t come close to explaining the feeling of desolation and mental agony that overcame me. The thoughts that crowded my consciousness were filled with hate and revenge, uncommon love and monumental loss.
For the longest time, I thought I’d never get up. But eventually, I did. About the time the sun was directly above us, I rose to my knees and gently rested Elaina’s head on the red Carolina soil. I picked up her cap and trudged up the incline toward the camper. With old tears and new tears clouding my vision and my equilibrium out of kilter, I kept slipping, falling, and sliding face first in the dirt. I don’t know if it happened three times or four, but I do know that each time I went down, I stayed there a while. Each time, I pounded my fists into the ground with what little strength I had left. I also cried—I wailed like a horrified man being led to the gallows.
When I finally reached the camper, I called the authorities on Elaina’s cell phone. Unfamiliar with the phone, shaking like I was, it took several efforts to dial 911 on the tiny keys. A short time later, the National Park Rangers arrived. The police and ambulance were not far behind.
The law officers told me right off that Elaina’s death had all the ingredients of a typical, careless hunting accident. After investigating the scene for two days, they said they hadn’t found a single meaningful clue, not even the spent shell. Of course, when the autopsy was performed they did find the bullet in my sweetheart’s chest. I don’t remember what caliber it was, but they said it was the one most widely used by deer hunters. They also said whoever pulled that trigger must have mistaken Elaina’s white sweatshirt for the tail of a deer.
The ironic part of this horrendous tragedy is that, if the mindless fucking cretin who ended my wife’s life was a hunter, he was also a poacher. Deer season in Western North Carolina hadn’t begun yet. It was sti
ll three weeks away. On top of that, the area around the Blue Ridge Parkway is a wildlife preserve, and hunting of any kind, at any time, is illegal. Although I’m fairly certain the investigators were correct in declaring Elaina’s death a hunting accident, I will carry to my grave a small gnawing doubt.
Since I was in no condition to drive, one of the police officers drove me and the RV back to the campground in Asheville. I stayed inside that camper for six straight days, most of the time curled up in bed. For a while I could still smell Elaina’s lilac perfume in the blanket and sheets. Not certain whether the scent was deepening my grief or giving me some small sense of comfort, I kept myself wrapped up in them. When the familiar fragrance began to dissipate, I sprayed more of the purple liquid onto the bed. I did this several times.
I really had no right being alone in my condition, but I was, and I wanted to be. Other than my brother, his wife, and my mother (who lived with them) there was nobody to turn to, nowhere to go. When I phoned Stanley, he insisted I come back up to Long Island and stay with them for a while. But I wasn’t about to endanger what was left of my family, and as I said before, all I wanted was to be left alone.
Since both Elaina’s parents had died in an automobile accident twelve years earlier, and she’d been an only child, there was nobody to notify in her family. She did have two cousins and an aunt, but years before her own death Elaina’s mother had a falling out with the aunt. Their small family had been estranged ever since. As for Elaina and I, we never had any children. She was unable to conceive. Although that had bothered us for many years, it now seemed like an extraordinary blessing. For there were no children to advise of their mother’s death.
The Last American Martyr Page 5
