Solace and I were in a Motel 6 outside of Minneapolis; both of us road weary; lying on a bed, nibbling on pretzels. I’d already taken a shower and was doing my nightly Soleswatch checkup on the laptop. The screen still showed my last spotting in Missoula, but there was a new addition to the five sketches of me. It was photograph of me with Solace, outside the camper, on Julie’s property. I knew a telescopic lens had been used to take it because our faces were uncomfortably clear, and the snapshot had been taken from the direction of the river. Since I’d always backed the camper right up to the water, I knew the shot had been taken from the woods beyond.
I also knew perfectly well who took it. And now, by exposing Solace, he’d made it far more difficult for me to remain unrecognizable.
I saw a handful of Enough is Enough bumper stickers along the way, all of them near the bigger Midwestern cities and in the Northeast. All of them were worn and faded, but that was no surprise. The social movement my book ignited had cooled drastically after the major retailers nixed it. After that, the movement all but died when Broadstreet International removed it from their lineup. There had been a slight uptick when Denise Solchow’s new publishing house put the book out in paperback, but that was confined to a few small groups protesting; waving paperbacks in front of a handful of big chain bookstores. Of course, in those isolated incidents, the folks demonstrating were quickly dispersed by local police.
As I headed east along Interstate 90 and 94, I witnessed various degrees of road rage on several occasions. One time, outside of Chicago, two young hotheads were so enraged they tore off a highway exit together. With only inches separating their bumpers they were obviously on their way to settling their differences. As I watched them make their chancy, speeding exit, I wondered if they’d square things away the old-fashioned way—with fists, or did one or both of them have other ideas. Had they not jerked their vehicles off the Interstate so precariously, I would have followed them to intercede. I’d had more than my share of fights as a young man; and win or lose, there was never anything glorious about two human beings pummeling each other. No rational man on the planet wants to fight.
Down the road, when my concern for the two boys in Chicago began to wane, I got to thinking about something other than Elaina and Julie for a change. I thought how for thirty years I’d witnessed a profound change in the attitudes of the American people. As times had gotten harder, so had their demeanors. Road rage, violent crime, divorce rates, pre-nuptial agreements, a fading sense of community—the far-reaching effects of financial difficulties had been boundless. I supposed, as I always had, that our societal devastation was an unfortunate human reflex to the relentless climb of stock market indexes.
The corporate mission to raise share values—ten, fifteen, twenty percent and more, every year—had taken its toll on the American working class. They were the ones who paid most dearly for those increases. The elimination of pensions, union busting, skyrocketing prices, cheapened products, false inflation, and a thousand other profit-driven reasons were why people had become so callous. But the little guy and gal couldn’t help it. Again, toughening up was a natural reflex. I knew that if a man or woman had still been paid enough to raise a family, and they had just a few dollars extra to put away at month’s end, this country never would have devolved into such a hostile, me-me place.
When I reached that point in my musings, I forced my mind into a different direction. I could no longer worry about such things. When I wrote my book, I’d put those and many more thoughts and observations into it, and look where they had gotten me. Now I had more personal concerns to deal with—far more dangerous concerns.
Nevertheless, Solace and I forged on. By early afternoon of day four, beneath a disheartening gray sky, we passed through Portsmouth, New Hampshire. There’s only a short stretch of I-95 passing through that small section of the state, and when you reach the middle of the Piscataqua River Bridge on the north end you enter the state of Maine. For many years there has been a heated dispute over whether the middle of the river or the Maine shoreline should be the border. As I drove through Portsmouth, approaching the bridge, that border reignited yet another dispute—the Elaina/Julie dilemma going on inside my head.
Knowing Julie was from Portsmouth; seeing the city now; being there, made me feel every bit as bad as when I drove away from her standing in front of her cabin that past Monday. Also, with the bridge right there in front of my eyes and the Maine border up at the top, I remembered all too clearly how excited Elaina and I had been each time we’d crossed it together. That recollection came close to reincarnating the indescribable pain I’d felt the day she was shot dead. By the time I reached the border, I was all choked up, and I just wanted it all to end. My vision clouded, engulfed in misery, I really thought my sixty-year-old heart was going to give out. And I did not care.
But a funny thing happened when I got over that bridge. The exact moment my front wheels touched the highway in Maine—that instant—the sun broke through all the gray gloom. The bright light felt ever so soothing as it shone through the windshield. Somehow it washed away all the hurt, despair, and confusion from my face. In the sun’s warmth, I felt the tenseness leave and my muscles relax. This new light allowed the towering pines alongside the highway to reclaim their vibrant green color as the clouds parted and new blue hope spread in the sky. Suddenly, the world didn’t seem to be such a mean-spirited place.
Stretching my arm back between the seats, I lovingly placed my hand on the brass urn carefully propped on the floor with pillows. I held onto it for a few moments, massaged it, and then I smiled.
Chapter 22
The first two nights in Bangor, Solace and I stayed at the Motel 6. During the days, we drove all over the outskirts of “The Queen City” looking for a rental but had absolutely no luck. There were enough homes and trailers available, but nobody wanted to rent short-term. I’d hoped to find a secluded place and just stay a month or two until I found something to buy. No way was I going to stay in a motel for that period of time. I was comfortable enough those first nights but still uneasy about being in town.
In the late afternoon of the second day, when I was just about to head back to the motel, I saw a dirt road off to my left. We were in a cozy little rural town fourteen miles west of Bangor called Carmel. Solace was as bushed and disgusted as I was and getting very antsy. She’d lie down in her seat, but every few minutes she’d pop back up on all fours and twirl around a few times. I’d been through that drill before and well knew what it meant. I promised her this road would be the last we’d check out.
Like most of the other roads we’d been on in Carmel, this one was nestled in tall pines. All the homes sat on a couple of acres or more, and behind them were thick woods instead of neighbors. It seemed perfect, for the time being. Anyway, just before we reached the end of the road, there was a “For Rent” sign next to a driveway up ahead. With all the brush and trees in front, I couldn’t see the place until we reached the driveway. It was a single-wide mobile home; old but tidy, sitting in an absolutely beautiful, park-like setting. It had a nice-sized front lawn and a slightly larger grassy area in back—from what I could see of that. I couldn’t see a neighbor in any direction, just woods. After walking around the empty place, I went back to the sign out front, with my cell, and called the owner.
When I mentioned the short-term catch, he paused on the other end, but then he said he’d be over in ten minutes. Full of hope now, with Solace on her leash, I went to the back again and stepped into the woods a short ways. Being early May, it was still cool, and cooler yet in the shadows of the trees. As I walked along the forest floor, dead leaves and winter fallen branches cracking and crunching beneath my sneakers, I ruminated about my immediate plans.
From the short periods of time Elaina and I had stayed in the Bangor area over the years, I still didn’t know if the outlying areas were isolated enough to settle down in. When we’d gone there in the past, we hadn’t explored the areas to the nor
th, which was my present plan. I could push another two hours north and look around Presque Isle, where I knew there were plenty of secluded areas. But just as the landlord pulled up in the driveway, setting Solace off immediately, I decided if north of Bangor wasn’t right for me I could still operate out of this trailer. From time to time, I could drive farther upstate; grab a motel room in different areas; explore for a couple of days; then come back and relax for a while.
The owner of the trailer was close to my age, a bit shorter and a real outdoorsy, can-do kind of guy. Not only that, but he turned out to be one of the finest human beings I’d ever met. It was about fifty degrees the day a jacketless Gary Cyrus first extended his hand to me, but he looked perfectly comfortable in just a tee shirt that was black as his hair. He looked like the type of man who could lose himself in the woods and survive with just the Swiss Army knife holstered on the belt that held up his jeans.
After taking a look inside the trailer and talking things over, he gladly rented me the place at a more than fair fee. After telling the fifth generation Mainer that I’d like to move in as soon as possible; that I’d just pick up a few pieces of used furniture to get by with; he wouldn’t stand for it. Gary said he had an extra twin bed at his place and an upholstered chair and a few other things he could bring right over, if I wanted to move in right then. When I told them that would be terrific, that I could shoot back to the motel and pick up my things, he said that was fine. But he also said that I looked like I could use a cold beer first. I could have kissed him on the forehead at that point, instead, I just said “sure.” He went to his pickup truck, brought back a small cooler with a six-pack on ice, and we split it on the back porch steps.
As planned, we stayed at Gary’s trailer for two full months. And at least once a week he’d come over with his six-pack, and we’d sit out on the porch. I always had my own beer in the refrigerator, but he always insisted we drink his. We quickly became good friends, and every time we knocked off his sixer, we’d grab a few more from my stock. I really enjoyed his company, and every time he left, I thought what a better world it would be if everyone had a bit of Gary Cyrus in them.
Our stay in Carmel was very peaceful and without incident, but I still kept an eye on Soleswatch. I couldn’t do that from the trailer because I never had the phone service turned on. So every now and then I’d drive over to a certain motel in Bangor, park in back, and check out the latest developments using their Wi-Fi and my laptop. As far as the site’s followers knew, I was still in Missoula.
The only other times I ever left Carmel were to make four trips upstate. After quickly deciding that outside the Bangor area wasn’t isolated enough for me, I knew I’d have to push north. On only the second trip, I was lucky enough to find a suitable mobile home in an out-of-the-way place called White Pine. I bought it for just the past due taxes and legal fees, which were next to nothing. There was very little demand for housing in White Pine, and the price of what little real estate was for sale reflected that. With a population of only 452 hardy souls spread over nineteen square miles, and most of the young people migrating to bigger cities as soon as they could, it wasn’t what you’d call a boom town. If a homeowner decided to move away from White Pine, or mysteriously vanished like Norm Flagg, the trailer’s previous owner had, there surely wouldn’t be any bidding wars going on.
It seemed like the perfect place for Solace and me. Sitting on ten acres of land, it backed on, and faced, nothing but dense forest. The trailer was set up in the trees much the same way as the one in Carmel but with a bigger front and back yard. The long dirt road leading up to it was in horrendous shape, and I figured that could only add to my sense of security. Not only were there ruts and deep holes everywhere, but it was uneven, as well. This was not a road anyone would use unless they absolutely had to. Another plus was that the closest neighbors were about two miles away, at the very beginning of what they call Split Branch Road. And I was at the far end of it. A fugitive like me couldn’t have asked for a better spot to hole up. In early July I closed on the property and furnished it with things from a Salvation Army store in Presque Isle.
For the first eleven months here in White Pine, Solace and I kept totally to ourselves. I did phone Julie every week and Gary Cyrus a few times. Denise Solchow, my editor, called me from time to time, too. She not only kept me up to date on the diminishing sales of Enough is Enough, but she’d been kind enough to buy books for me to read. Her sending them here was a life saver, since the only stores in White Pine were a gas station/general store and a place called Edna’s Country Café. I’m sure the closest things to literature they carry were The Bangor Daily News and a handful of magazines. Even if they had more books than Barnes and Noble, I couldn’t patronize them. I had to stay out of public places for fear of losing my anonymity and the peace of mind it allowed me.
That first summer we had warmer weather than normal. Most mornings I drove to a nearby logging road that was no longer in use and jogged a few miles. I also had my reading to keep me occupied, the computer, and Lord knows, plenty of yard work. Solace and I both loved the property and spent much of our time relaxing on the back porch. I sipped coffee out there in the mornings, and in the afternoons, at about three, we’d go out there again. I’d nurse a few beers, and both us would just take it easy and keep an eye out for the wildlife. Of course, we saw far more animals during the morning shifts. One early morning when we’d first moved in, we were allowed a very special treat. Before we’d gone out, while waiting for the coffee to brew, two winter-battered moose showed up in the backyard. I picked Solace up so she, too, could see out the living room window, and we watched them for a long time. Both the mother and daughter were huge but very, very thin. Their coats pale and rough, they alternated nibbles on the new grass with occasional glances at us.
Every morning we had close to twenty wild turkeys show up, also. They loved the cracked corn I sprinkled beneath our bird feeder. But the turkeys weren’t nearly as tolerant as the moose had been. We had to stand well behind the kitchen window, and off to the side, to watch them. If they noticed me watching, or if Solace started barking, they were out of there—like right now. I also loved watching the squirrels, chipmunks, and the rest of the birds that found sanctuary here as well. Solace, on the other hand, would have preferred to go after them had I allowed her. Of all the birds that frequented the backyard, I was most fond of the diminutive hummingbirds. They’d come right up to the two feeders I’d hung from the porch eaves and hover, while we sat right there. After they migrated south in early September I sorely missed them. I truly enjoyed all my feathered and furry neighbors. With them around, I didn’t feel quite so alone.
My only face-to-face encounters with human beings were when I made two trips to Carmel to see Gary and on my monthly, fifty-mile supply runs to Presque Isle. During the latter, I’d buy cigarettes, load up on beer, and get my groceries at a small, out-of-the-way grocery store. I’d have loved to buy everything I needed at Ike’s General Store, in White Pine, but that would have been too risky. I simply could not let people see my face—especially here. Even though I’d been going by the name of Darius McClure since I arrived, it was all too possible that someone might have recognized me. It was one hell of a way to live, but if I wanted to stay in one place and one piece, that was the only way. Even when I’d rented the trailer in Carmel, from Gary, I had to tell him my name was Tom Ferguson. As I did with Franklin Dewitt in Florida, I often wondered if he knew who I really was.
By the time November rolled around, our pleasurable outdoor activities were all but over. That eleventh month is nobody’s favorite in New England. Almost like clockwork, the weather becomes cold and damp, the skies gloomy. Dark, tufted clouds droop low, overhead, like soggy, old, gray upholstery. And they seem to homestead there. The abysmal weather offers nothing positive for the human spirit’s inner flame. By the time November grudgingly came to an end, that fire in my damaged spirit had been all but extinguished. But it was more than just
climactic conditions that brought me to those new lows. It was also deer hunting season.
Nary was there a day that a gunshot didn’t ring out in the woods. And every blast brought me back that much closer to my last day with Elaina. With each shot, the vision of her dying in my arms became more vivid. Over and over, I felt her body grow cold in my arms; each time my heart ached a little bit more.
Ever since I had lost Elaina that November morning a year earlier, the sun never set on a day that she wasn’t near the center of my thoughts. Every time one of those rifle shots pierced my soul, all I could do was retreat to the bedroom. I’d just lay in there staring up at the trailer’s low ceiling, oblivious to it, holding Elaina’s burgundy cap. Sometimes I stayed in that bed until I cried myself to sleep. Dawn, dusk, the middle of the day, it did not matter. And by the time hunting season finally ended, I didn’t look any better than those two haggard moose I’d seen earlier that year. Of course, I couldn’t see or feel the spirits of those tired animals, but I know damn well they had been in far better shape than mine were by the end of November.
The Maine winter that followed was frigid and long, but Solace and I handled it quite well. She loved frolicking in the deep snow. She also liked to dig in it, burying her head as she hunted down mice. One time she surfaced from a foot of the white stuff with one in her mouth. I yelled at her to drop it, but that was one of the few times she would not listen to me. I can still visualize that poor wiggling tail sticking out of Solace’s mouth as she took it down headfirst. The woodstove in the small living room kept us nice and toasty while inside, and reading certainly helped me pass the time. The books kept coming from Denise, and Manny Ruiz shipped my entire collection from New York along with the few other items I cared to hold onto. I asked Manny if he could sell everything else he’d put in storage for me. I told him he could keep all the proceeds, and though he thought it wasn’t fair that he should keep all the money, I managed to persuade him. I also settled a couple of other affairs.
The Last American Martyr Page 18
