Tales From The Roads, The Rivers And The Woods

Tales From the Roads, the Rivers and the Woods

by

Tom Rinkes

Table of Contents

Story 1. Tales From The Big Road

Story 2. The Molding Cove

Story 3. 14 Mulberry

1.Tales From The Big Road

I’m a retired truck driver, nine years now, and I still miss it. I was in the “life” for thirty-three years until a heart condition forced me into early retirement. Road life is not for everyone, but I didn’t mind it. I met a lot of people I’d like to meet again, and a few I hope I never lay eyes on, ever. I’ve been urged by some family members, who have heard my spiel for decades now, to pen some of my experiences and the good people I’ve been fortunate enough to meet along the way. Occasionally I’ll use “trucker speak” which is a grammar lesson all to itself. I swear to you, the reader, that the following is true. I’ll start with the Cook.

Mama Louisa

For years I traveled Interstate 78 across eastern Pennsylvania, into New Jersey and on up to Beantown (Boston.) There was this hole-in-the wall restaurant, fuel stop, garage and shower house—all in separate buildings—located on the west side of I-78. Back then we called any four-lane highway, especially the Interstate, the “Big Road. This road wonder was a on a two-lane artery which we called a “Skinny Road.” It was started, and run, by an Italian lady who was known simply as “Mama Louisa.”

She was short, middle-aged with greying hair and a slightly plump stature. What one noticed first about Mama was her … bosoms. She had to have the largest set of naturals known to humankind and, if she liked you, she’d give you a big hug. Road rumor had it Mr. Louisa died of suffocation one night when Louisa rolled over in her sleep.

And did I mention she was a great cook too? Her Veal Parm was to die for.

Anyway, about once a week this smuck for North Jersey would come in and parade around with his Teamster’s hat on and act like he was a big shit. No one ever complained about Mama’s cooking, but this dwebe constantly sent his food back to her saying “It’s cold” or “I said medium dammit!” In other words, if there was a magazine called Asshole Monthly, he’d be on the front cover. I asked another driver, who was older than me, if anyone was gonna set this guy straight about his manners and he just looked at me, smiled and said, “Just wait.”

So I believe it was a Wednesday night when Mr. Wiseass strolled in and ordered linguini with sausage and peppers. After two or three bites he calls the waitress—I believe her name was Angie—over and sent it back for not being “Al dente.” Five seconds later Mama quickly came out of the kitchen with a rolling pin in her hand that still had some noodles and marinera on it. She got right in his face and said, and I quote,

“Listen here you low-life sonamabitch, if you don’t lika my cookin’” she said loudly, waving the roller like a baton, “then youa can take you ugly ass the fangool (F-word) outta my place and don’t you ever come back!!”

I stopped by twice a week for four years after that and never did see the dude.

The Baloney Angel

Her name was Annie. She lived down over the hill that drops from Phillipsburg, Jersey into Easton Pa. At dusk every night, you could see her walking up the hill with a flashlight leading her way. When she got to the wide spot on that hill she’d pull her shirt up and flash all drivers with a lovely set of boobies. When the drivers who were horny would hear that “Flashlight Annie” was in town they’d stop and “contract” with her for services rendered. She was a prostitute, plain and simple. Yet, there was more to her than what dazzled one’s eyes.

One dreary-ass night around January 1985 the rain started to hit hard on our windshields. I told the trucker in front of me I didn’t see any sweat—our term for spray—coming off his tires. That means one thing; freezing rain. We were all parked up on top of Annie’s mountain when this Bobby-Big-Rigger—a punk driver that thought he knew everything—said “I ain’t afraid of no ice,” pulled out and halfway down he went sideways. Through the CB-Citizens Band Radio—someone asked if he was alright and he said yes but did anybody have a spare pair of BVD’s on them, preferably a forty inch waist. I assume you know what happened.

Yeah, he shit himself.

Knowing we were spending the night there, I put my PJ’s on and settled in the sleeper. All of a sudden someone said they saw two flashlights coming up the hill. I had to see this so I dressed and watched with everyone else as two drivers helped Annie and her twentyish daughter over the guardrail. Annie had a Coleman cooler filled with baloney sandwiches—no condiments, but what the hell—and four thermos’s filled with strong, black coffee.

I had a sandwich and a coffee and seeing as how I was in my early thirties then, Annie’s daughter, Sheila, took a shine to me. She asked if I wanted a “date”, but I declined because I was born and raised a Baptist and good Christians never give a hooker anything but a hard time… I didn’t mean that like it sounded. So please don’t tell the Baptists what I’m about to tell you.

My whole opinion of the “Ladies of the Evening” changed that night. Even if business wasn’t conducted, these two ladies thought about feeding us first and risked life and limb to climb that icy hill to our rescue. And to be truthful, the whole thing is about supply and demand. If men didn’t have a need, then the girls wouldn’t be there to satisfy it. Whenever drivers who ran I-78 regularly would sit around the round table and shoot the shit, inevitably Annie’s name would be mentioned. Some of them would just smile and say “Yeah. I know Annie.” She was a class act in a classless world.

Bag-a-Rags

On my bi-weekly run to Boston I’d get out of that town ASAP and head for my home base in Wheeling, West Virginia. There was a good place to take a nap, get up and pig out at a restaurant that was atypical of New England and the East Coast eateries. It was called simply “DINER.” Located off the first exit past the Poughkeepsie, New York bridge that crossed the Hudson River on I 87, it had ample parking for tractor trailers in the back lot. I always noticed there was never anyone parked by the abandoned container trailer (all metal for overseas shipping) in the left-hand corner. On that day there was only one spot left and—you guessed it—that spot was empty. I pulled in so I could have the sun to my back, dove into the sleeper and damn near passed out; I was that whipped.

After about three hours an urgent nature call woke me. Truckers have two, outdoor urinals complete with privacy at their disposal so I got up and stood between the fuel tank and the front of the trailer and … relieved myself. I heard a noise and found I was face-to-face with the ugliest, dirtiest and most frightening man I’d ever seen and he just stared at me. Needless to say I zipped up and went into the restaurant at almost a dead run. Sitting at the counter, I asked my waitress if the boss, a Mr. Jim Lambros, was there and could I talk to him. I’d talked friendly with him before so he came and stood opposite me.

“What can I do for you, Tommy?”

“Well,” I said as I stirred my coffee. “I just got the shit scared out of me out back. Do you know what’s there?”

Immediately a smile came to his face and then he started to laugh. He looked over at the other drivers at the counter and said,

“Gentlemen. The newbie just met Bag-a-Rags,” to which the whole place busted out laughing. Everyone but me. When it calmed down Mr. Lambros poured himself a coffee and said to follow him to a booth. We sat there, talking mano-el-mano stuff and then he clues me in. Seems a homeless man that nobody local knew had set up camp inside that trailer about three years ago. Jimmy felt sorry for the poor guy and would take him back scraps to eat from time to time. Some of the other drivers would take him a meal to go once in a while. Yet, I was confused.

“Jimmy,” I called him because on the East Coast everybody’s name ended in a “y”. I don’t care if your name was Alphonso you were called Alphonsoy. “Don’t this dude bother you?”

“Nah. He don’t bother nobody but you was pissin’ on his property—ya’ know what I’m saying here?” and then he started to laugh again. Like one of those belly laughs. Even I started to crack up when I saw the humor in this situation. He continued.

“You see, Tommy, the man’s down on his luck and my savior, Jesus Christ, commands me to help him out. I’m doing okay with this place and it don’t hurt to share some with him. It’s the least I can do. Besides, the guy ain’t right in the head so we feel sorry for him.”

I totally agreed with him and after I had my meal of baked steak, mashed potatoes smothered with rich, beef gravy I took a spaghetti dinner to go. I walked—quickly, now mind you—to the back of his “abode” and left the styrofoam container at his doorstep, then I hit the road. I ran that route for two more years till I got bumped off my bid, and I fed the man twice a week. I’m grateful for that experience because no amount of church teaching or Billy Graham’s bible-banging ever made an impression on me about charity like Mr. Rags did. I’ve never forgotten him but wait till I tell you about Mary.

Cemetery Mary

Mary was her name; that’s all we knew. She ran the nightshift at Dukes Diner, corner of US Rt. 30 and State Rt. 501 just east of Lancaster Pennsylvania. I stopped there two, early mornings a week for some strong coffee and conversation, a.k.a. bullshit, just to try and wake up before I headed over to Jersey for my last stop. In case you haven’t noticed, I like Diners. I always thought it’d be cool to have a celebrity interviewing another hot shot at a late night Diner and call it “Dinerviews,” but enough of my spiel.

She was the manager, head waitress and bouncer, if need be, at that establishment. Her husband ran the cemetery a half mile down 501 and we—privately—nick-named her “Cemetery Mary,” stolen from one of the Garbage Pail Kids’ bubble gum cards. But, she was anything but morbid.

She stood about five-nine to ten, kinda tall for a lady, with blond hair fixed to a tee, hazel eyes and a pleasing smile if you didn’t piss her off. She was a very attractive and independent-minded woman long before it was fashionable by today’s standards. All the regulars would tease her a little but none of us went overboard with it because we had respect for the lady. She reaffirmed it one night when Richard Cranium (Dick Head) came in and strutted his stuff.

Every truck stop or diner has a Highway Romeo who thinks he’s God’s gift to women and Dukes was no different. In walks this doucebag one night who hauled meat for a living to the Philly markets. He wore the cowboy outfit, the boots and a belt buckle half as big as the steering wheel on a Mack truck. I never spoke to the prick ’cause I didn’t like him from the get-go, but we’re a free diner society so I just had to accept it. Once a week, on Friday nights, he’d come strolling in, smelling good and looking spiffy and he’d wink at Mary. He made sure he’d sit—he’d even move if he picked the wrong booth—in Mary’s section so she had to wait on him.

He flirted with Mary for about a month, but she politely put him off in a civilized kind of way, But one Friday he went too far. After he sat, and when he thought no one was looking, he hid the sugar container under his seat, an old trick. When Mary came to take his order he told her a coffee but there wasn’t any sugar on the table, so she goes and gets one. As she was leaning forward to place the glass container in its proper spot a little cleavage appeared and this asshole slipped a small piece of paper between her … you know where. She stood up, looking pissed, and read the note. Then she said something that stunned us all.

“Driver,” she said calmly. “I’d say the best chance of you gettin’ laid tonight is to just crawl up a chicken’s ass and wait your turn. I’m assuming you’re in a hurry now.”

And that he was and we never saw him again. That was the ultimate putdown and I’ve never forgotten it.

Or Mary either, for that matter.

Naptimes

I met a good ole’ boy at a service plaza on I 95 outside of Baltimore, Maryland one late afternoon. We were talking truckin’ stuff from the parking lot to the restaurant door and decided to sit together. Those plazas were situated in the middle of Interstate 95 and both north and southbound traffic could access its services. He told me his name was Willy, and I said Tom. As any trucker will tell you, surnames aren’t important when you live on the road. A first name or a CB code name (the “handle” one would use on the Citizens Band Radio) was enough to start a conversation or a friendship. This encounter turned out to be both.

We were seated in a Howard Johnson’s restaurant which dotted many highways in the 1980’s. Willy and I were in a booth having coffee, apple pie for him and coconut cream for me and slinging the “bullstein”(BS) as he called it when a family of four sat behind us. It was the typical Mom and Dad plus two kids on vacation and the parents had the look of two people who couldn’t wait for this taxing experience to end. After the waitress took their order, the little daughter of about three or four years old began to cry. I mean she was sobbing. Mom and Dad looked at each other in desperation, trying to ease her anxiety. Willy turned, leaned his left arm on the seat top, presenting his snow-white hair and asked them a question.

“I know it’s none of my business, ma’am, but why is she crying so bad?” he asked in his slow, southern drawl.

“We just saw a dead deer on the side of the road and that really upsets Missy. We don’t know what to do.”

“Well, mother, is it alright if I take a crack at it?”

Mom and Dad looked at each other and shot Willy a look of “Oh what the hell. Give it a try.” Willy then began his therapy session.

“Baby girl, look up at me,” he said in a comforting tone and a smile on his grandfatherly-type face. “Now I’m here to tell you, those deer ain’t dead. They’re just taking a nap.”

Missy’s whole persona was transformed in a split second. She looked up at him with her trusting baby-blues eyes and said,

“Reeeallly?”

“Yes ma’am, really. A lot of animals like the humming sound of our truck tires. It lures them to the road and it puts them to sleep. They lay down, like you do, and nap for a couple of hours, get up and go back into the woods. So there’s no reason to worry any more. Okay?”

Her eyes said it all as she smiled from ear to ear, then munched on a french fry and took drinks from her sippy cup. While the Dad was paying the bill, Mom walked back over to us and put a hand on Willy’s shoulder.

“Thank you, sir, for that … observation,” she said with a chuckle. “May the Good Lord bless you.”

“He already has, ma’am, a thousand times over. Drive safely now.”

We crawled up into our trucks; he went south, and I north. I saw him a couple of times after that and then he must’ve got a new run. He’s just one of many characters I’ve stored in my memory banks who made a lasting impression on me.

Highway Justice

Between the years 1981-1989 I hauled produce for a small company in Wheeling, West Virginia called—Oh, what the hell, they’re out of business now so I guess I can’t get sued—Coronet Foods Inc. They were like any other struggling business with their own fleet of trucks, as in the transportation department was last on the list to get needed repairs. Our main customer was McDonald’s, and they got real picky about the cleanliness of the trailers delivering anything perishable, which included us, so the owner hired some kid to clean both tractors and trailers with a hand-held power system.

I knew this dude from way back. Donny was the biggest speed freak I’d ever met to date. His eyes were continually bugged out and he took so many pills he had a Chinese nickname; as in “Cap Sule.” There was one drum of soap for the trucks and other containers with even stronger soap just for the trailers and Mr. “Go Fast” couldn’t—or wouldn’t—keep them straight. The trailer soap was leaving a residue on our windshields that impaired our night driving abilities, as the glare from oncoming headlights was killing us. I wish I had a dollar for everytime I told the driver behind me I was suffering from a severe case of CSS (Can’t See Shit).

I, and other drivers, complained to our shop boss about it but to no avail. His name was Junior but no one knew his last name. It could’ve been Charly Manson’s brother for all we knew. He told us the owner said to drive the trucks anyway and take more breaks. That PMOTTM (Pissed Me Off To The Max) and I decided to go “Communist” on their ass, as in “the end justifies the means.”

About a mile before our garage was a wide spot where our area’s coal haulers would stop and knock off some coal off the tops of their load. There were a lot of poor people in our area at that time, and they’d come down off the hill and retrieve the black gold to help heat their homes. So one day after I did my Boston run, I stopped there, grabbed a huge chunk of coal and threw it at my windshield, hoping to make a crack across it and then the company would have to replace it. I’d blame it on a passing dump truck but they blamed shit on us freight haulers all the time too, and it was like a game we played. Only thing is, I totally underestimated my fastball.

I shattered the whole windshield and had to drive the last mile with my head out the window, which ain’t no picnic in the middle of January. I wrote up a maintenance report and got outta town pronto, if you know what I mean. Two days later I came back to do my Wednesday-Thursday run to find two, brand spanking new windshields in my ride. I was a happy camper, but as a Roadway driver once said, “For every action there is an equal and shittier reaction.”

From like outta nowhere it seemed the whole dump truck world declared war on our trucks. No shit. That week three of our trucks came in with cracked windshields, then two more, then the whole fleet of ten trucks got new windshields. I was rather proud of myself then but never admitted to doing anything in public. I found out later from my boss that I had been moved from the “A” List to the “S” (Shit) list and to watch myself until the owner calmed down. Well, you know what they say.

Sometimes, a trucker’s gotta do what a trucker’s gotta do.

2. The Molding Cove

Charles James “Charley” Pappas was my step-grandfather. The man—not my blood, but my Pap just the same—taught me many things; the love of fishing on a hot, July day and how to drive when I was only fourteen. Come to think of it, the most driving we did was to the Martins Ferry, Ohio Marina to go fishing, of course.

Pap was like all experienced anglers as he knew the best spots, the bait and lures to use and when to call it a good day or one that just wasn’t worth his time. As long as we were scooting up or down the Ohio River, Pap was home wherever he cast his line. Sometimes we’d fish off the old Valley Machine dock and catch “mudcats” and “golden carp”. The River then was filthy, and we did it just for sport because they were too polluted to eat, but they sure did put up a fight. After he’d carefully extract the hook from each fish’s mouth, Pap would hold it up to the heavens and say:

“Thank you, dear Lord, for this bounty. I will return it to the depths so it may live another day as I do not desire its flesh. Amen.”

He’d throw it back in and we’d move on.

I remember July 7, 1966 like it was yesterday. We rose early and Pap could step lively when he had gills in his sights, but that morning he was very slow and lethargic. He worried me because he was eighty years old and I knew the day would come when we wouldn’t be doing this. I just hoped it wasn’t that day.

“What’s the matter, Pap?” I asked as I laid my hand on your shoulder. “If you don’t feel like it we can go tomorrow.”

“Tommy,” he said with a gravely tone. “If I never do anything else … I got to get in that boat today. You promise me now, boy, you get me there—you hear?”

“Yes … yes, sir. What’s wrong? Are you sick or something?” I pleaded.

“… Something,” he said.

“But I don’t understand.”

“You will, because it’s time you do. Now, gimme my boots.”

I got him dressed and topped him off with his favorite fishing hat. It was dirty, it was floppy, it had lures pinned to the rim and it was him as I’ll always remember the man. He rode shotgun and I pulled out carefully while watching my back to make sure Vinnie Serrano—the local cop—wasn’t tailing me. He knew our felonious ways and we didn’t need the hassle.

-2-

I put Pap in the twenty-foot skip and started back to the car.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Back to get our gear. Where else?”

“No need,” he said as he shifted to the front. “Only gonna catch one fish today. Get in.”

So I untied from the dock, started the Evinrude and cruised out. “Which way?” I asked.

“Due north, and hurry.”

I hung a left, hit full throttle and watched Pap intently as we motored up the river and then he pointed hard to the left. I slowed down as we entered the mouth of Little Short Creek. After we idled past the last row of houses Pap turned to me.

“Tommy, cut the engine. We row from here.”

Pap took the left side and me the right. We rowed maybe a half mile when the old man took to one of his coughing spells. I was used to it because he never would give up those cigarettes, but I couldn’t say anything because I snuck a few puffs too. They were getting the best of him yet this time he wretched so hard I swear I saw his rib cage shudder through his white, tee-shirt. Then he spat into the tissues he always kept and I looked down as they floated by and saw … blood. Two, three maybe five Kleenex’s shot by coved in red.

“Boy, you take over. It ain’t much farther.”

I never argued with Pap. I just did what he’d say, and rowed a steady path as we came to a right turn.

“Slow down now,” he said. “Kept us steady … steady… okay, drop anchor!”

Before us was the shoreline and two, huge oak trees maybe a hundred feet apart. To me it was unimpressive, but to Pap it garnered respect because he removed his hat and stood up as best he could. Then he said something that made me think his mind was going.

“Latricia de La Salle Queen of the Waters, it is I, Charley Phillips. Please speak to me, for my time is short.”

A few feet off the port side came a large circle of bubbles, and my knees started to shake. Up from the depths came a most beautiful woman with flaming red but wet hair smoothed straight back as if it was combed that way. Her eyes were a shade of blue that I’ve yet been able to describe and wearing a smile so comforting that made my kneecaps take a break.

“Charles,” she said, “it has been a long time since your father brought you to me. What do you require?”

“I have lung cancer. My time is nigh and I wish to pass on to my grandson what my father willed to me,” Pap said in a surprisingly strong tone.

“And what is this young man’s name?”

“It is Tommy.”

She cast her gaze upon me and I could neither look at her nor look away.

“Thomas, be attentive and astute for a great honor has been bestowed upon you,” she said.

She turned her back to the shore and started to backstroke towards it. Her arms were scalely and brown; her feet—I mean tail—was the same aura. As she approached what I thought was the end of waters a cove opened between the oaks and Pap ordered me to follow her. I was in a daze but obeyed his command and the water changed from muddy and murky to crystal clear. We followed this damsel for a few hundred feet—I’m guessing—and with every foot Pap started to change. His grey and thinning hair began to turn brown and full. His wrinkles disappeared as if he’d just had a facelift and his tee-shirt almost popped its seams as muscles replaced the flabby and hanging skin. He looked …twenty years old. We reached the end of this magic moment and Pap turned to me.

“Tommy, when I can no longer come here myself I want you to bring me here.”

“Where’s … here?” I stammered.

“It is called Paradeen,” Latricia said, “the Land of Righteous Manners towards my kind. Soon, Charles will reside here and maybe you too, if you harvest my beings responsibly.” She turned her attention towards Pap. “Go now, Charles, for you have a few days left. You will know when to come back. Until then, my friend.”

With that, she slinked down and swam away.

“Okay, Tommy, let’s go back. And don’t be shocked at what you see,” Pap said.

I turned, rowed back into the creek while taking a few sneak peeks behind me. The cove was collapsing as we progressed and Pap was returning to his old and weary self. I took him home, told Grandma about his condition and saw him to bed. I went home, quietly ate supper with my parents and went straight to bed. I spent a sleepless night trying to forget this whole paranormal experience, but that was a waste of time.

-3-

Two weeks later Principal Dennis came to math class and pulled me aside. He told me Pap was at the hospital in the Hospice Wing. I knew what that meant and I knew I had to come up with a plan. To save his eternal life I’d have to sneak him out, get him to the boat without being caught. A tall order for a teenager, but I manned-up as I ran the four blocks to his side.

In the waiting room were Grandma and my parents. The women gave me a comforting hug as their tears shed on my shirt. They all knew I was Pap’s favorite and would probably take this the hardest, but they didn’t know what I knew so I acted crushed just the same.

I slowly walked into Room 305 and was appalled at what I saw. Pap had tubes and wires galore taped or hanging from every visible area. I stood over him slowly and touched his arm.

“Pappy, don’t worry. I’ll get you outta here somehow. You just rest and I’ll figure something out.”

The old man looked up at me with a smile in his eyes.

“Come right at eleven o’clock tonight,” he whispered.

“Why eleven?”

“That’s shift change. All the nurses are in the break room giving instructions to the night crew. We’ll sneak down the fire escape.”

“But, can you walk?”

“Don’t need to walk. I got a strong and strapping young buck for a grandson. You can carry me if you have to. Caprice?”

“Caprice. You hold on now. I’ll be back later.”

“Not to worry, boy. Now go get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”

-4-

Not being the model teenage boy most people thought I was, I’d already found a way out of my upstairs bedroom to the enticements of the night long before this. A window—which I kept lubricated with beeswax to open quietly—overtop the back porch’s roof and sliding down the wooden columns like a fireman gave me quick getaway. I walked the alleys to Pap’s house knowing Grandma went to bed right after the ten o’clock news and would be sound asleep when I made my move.

Their house was on a downhill slant so I got in his Chevy Impala, took the keys from the ashtray—because it was 1966, and no one locked their cars then—pressed in on the clutch and coasted for about four houses, then popped the clutch. I was rolling and extremely proud of my 007 maneuvers thus far. As I pulled into the hospital parking lot I turned off my lights and eased into the back alley to the fire escape door, only hitting one trashcan which I chalked up as “first time jitters”.

At precisely eleven pm I removed my shoes and walked the two flights up to the Hospice floor. There was a small, glass window in the door and I found the coast clear. I snuck ever so quietly along the wall to his room to find him up and dressed with all but one life-saving device removed.

“What’s that for?” I whispered.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “But it hurts terrible when I try to pull it out. I’ll carry it. Now let’s go.”

I gently opened the door, eased my face out and found the nurses were still talking at a distance. His IV was on a stand with four rollers and when we hit the hallway it sounded like they hadn’t been greased for years. Not wanting to get caught so quickly I removed the bag of water or whatever it was and made Pap carry it. We got into our escape route surely enough but then I found Pap was too winded to even walk down the steps. Gathering the knowledge I learned in the Boy Scouts, before I got kicked out for smoking in the Methodist Church, I knew the only way to safely transport an injured victim was to carry them. I picked up the old man, put him on my shoulders and back-packed him down to the car. He used to give me hobby-horse rides when I was a pup and it was my turn to return the kindness.

We left the dock around midnight and with the help of a searchlight that Pap kept handy I found Little Short Creek with ease. Shining the light on the woods I found the oaks and turned towards them. Pap couldn’t stand this time but he eased out his calling for the water angel or whatever she was. Instantly she appeared and we followed her into the cove as Pap took on the vitality that he once had. I docked on the shore, Latricia safely removed the IV and then Pap turned to me.

“Tommy, you’re a good boy … most of the time. You’ve always been my number one, and you always will. I love you and if you live by my example, I will see you again. Now you must go … but, come here.”

The man hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks. My tears started to flow and I choked backed the sobs as he told me I must go. When I got back to the dock my whole family was there, angry and waiting for me to face them. Officer Serrano—he was such a bully—had to be there too like some crime had been committed, but I guess technically there was.

I told them Pap begged me to take him on one last fishing trip to Pike Island Dam where the catfish were rumored to be huge. As he caught a big one it pulled him overboard and the last I saw of him he was going over the locks. My mother shook me, my Granny slapped me and my old man was ready to punch me, but after a few days things settled down. We had a Memorial service at Pap’s Nazarene Church, a small dinner later at Grandma’s house but I stayed mostly outside because I was the black sheep now, but for a good reason. It stayed tense between them and me for about a year and then my life resumed.

-5-

So today, July 7th, 2014 I sat in my own boat at the same spot I was forty-eight years ago. I hadn’t been here since that special day and I had to make another plan in case I mentally lost this place. Grandma and her daughter, my mother, both died of Alzheimer’s and it was so sad at their end. They couldn’t even remember me or Dad or our names. With new-found technology I knew that’d never happen to me. I took out my I-Phone and jotted down the numbers. When I got back I was going to see my lawyer and amend my will. There will be a sealed envelope for my son’s eyes only. Paul will only open it if the doctors deem me mentally incapacitated then he can bring me here and repeat the phrase Pap recited. It has been a long and fruitful life and as long as Paul follows these numbers, it will never end.

Longitude: N 40.19881 Latitude: W 80.773376

Enjoy your life. Eat more chicken. Leave the fish in the Ohio the way you found them.

They have a special friend.

***

3. 14 Mulberry

She haunts me. She deviled me last night and the night before and the night before that. I’m napping in my truck when I hear a noise and I look up from under the brim of my cap and I see her, short and young with long, black hair and wearing a white nightgown. She looks right at me, right through me, like she knows me and I ought to know her and she keeps saying something over and over, “Thirteen”…I can’t make out the rest. Then she disappears and I wake up cold and clammy. Problem is, I’m not sure if it’s a dream or it’s real, but it keeps happening over and over and I can’t figure out why.

***

My name is Alex Battistone, a truck driver out of Pittsburgh. I run from there to Columbus, Ohio and back. It’s an evening-stretched-into-daylight job that took a while to get used to. All drivers eventually find a good spot to lay their heads for an hour or two and mine was far off the road with a small meadow before a line of maples of oak, maple and cherry trees.

Four mornings a week for a month it gave me comfort; enough to get the job done and go home until the next night. But Monday night, when the fog got so thick I couldn’t see the hood and I couldn’t go any further, I pulled in, shut the truck off and drifted off quickly. When the sunlight through the mist woke me, I saw someone had used their finger to scribe something on the outside glass. “14 MULBERRY,” was neatly printed for me to see. I don’t know what scared me more—the fact someone snuck up on me or whoever did it knew how to write backward.

I’m a street kid—born and raised in Pittsburgh, North Side. I’ve been in my share of fights and I don’t scare easy, but for some reason I couldn’t make my legs move. This is ridiculous, I thought, someone is playing tricks here and I’ve got to get out and teach them a lesson. As I pulled away and marched around the truck, I caught a glimpse of her hiding behind a big oak tree. I’d had enough of this game so I ran into the woods to catch her and take her to her parents. I tripped over something, and I saw a post with a mailbox on top.

What idiot threw this back here? I thought. There was a name on the mailbox and I cleaned it off with my shirtsleeve, but all that was readable was J. BA…..ONE. About a hundred feet or so behind it was a chimney, foundation walls and a lot of hardened, black dirt. I looked around for her but she was gone again, so I forced myself to walk over there. Standing in the middle of this burned shell of a house I asked myself, Why am I here? What keeps drawing me to this place? Ohio is 225 miles long; surely I could find another spot.

***

Just up the road was the Sunny Boy Café, home of great coffee and fresh donuts, and I stopped there every morning to clean up and fill up. There was an old man there every morning, same table, same chair. He was maybe eighty, wearing old gray pants pulled up past his waist with suspenders for back up, white shirt, wide tie and a Cleveland Browns hat. He sat there drinking tea and all the locals would stop to say hello and catch up on the gossip. I’d always been curious about him. When I paid my tab I asked the waitress,

“Julie, what’s the deal with the old guy?”

She looked at me funny. “Why you ask?”

“I’m just curious about a place I found in the woods, out by that wide spot.”

She motioned me closer so she could whisper in my ear. “His name is Ollie, but it better be Mr. Smithton to you. Anything you want to know about this town or this county, he’s your man. People say he’s a walking, talking encyclopedia.”

I walked up to him with my coffee in one hand and my hat in the other.

“Mr. Smithton,” I said. “Have you got a minute?”

“That all depends, young man.”

“On what?”

“On who you are and what you want.”

I didn’t expect to get the attitude so far from the big cities, but I can play the game with the best of them.

“I’m just a traveling man that stumbled on an old, burned out house in the woods back by the wide spot. I was told you’re the mayor, so to speak. My name is Alex, Alex Battistone.”

He looked straight up at me. “You better go talk to your grandfather about that.”

“I can’t. He died ten years ago.” He dropped his gaze.

“Then go talk to your father, and if you have any more questions come back and see me.”

***

The interview was over, and I headed home with every intention to see my old man. He was sitting in his usual spot—the kitchen—drinking coffee and chain-smoking Camels. He wore the same outfit he did when he worked in the mill—jeans, flannel shirt and scuffed-up boots. The blast furnace had carved lines in his face and hands, but he was still a tough one. I poured a cup, did a little small talk and came out with it.

“Dad, I’ve been taking a break around a little town called Ambridge. Did you ever hear of it?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there once. Dad loaded us all up years ago and went to visit his uncle.”

“Don’t happen to remember his name, do you?”

“Let’s see. It was J-something, John or Jim or…Jacob. Yeah, that’s it, Jacob. Why you asking, Al?”

I had to tread lightly. It was always obvious that he almost worshiped his dad. Pap was a good man, a real stand-up guy, and what was forming in my mind couldn’t involve him.

“There’s this old boy I met at the diner who acted a little funny when I told him my name.

It was like his whole attitude changed.”

Dad hung his head and shook it back and forth a little. “There were always rumors,” he said.

“Rumors about what?”

“That my great-uncle liked the little girls too much, you understand what I’m saying, Al?”

It took all I had to ask the next question. I inhaled deeply and took a long gulp of coffee.

“Dad, do you remember where he lived?”

“In a big house in the woods. I can’t remember the address, but the street name was some kind of tree, I just can’t remember which one.”

I felt sick and weak.

“What’s the matter with you boy? You look like you’re coming down with something.”

“Nah, Dad, I’m all right. I’ve just been putting in a lot of hours lately, and it’s catching up to me.” But I had one more question to ask. “What did Pap think of this guy?”

“Not much, I gather. The way I remember it, one of Dad’s nieces was sitting on Uncle Jake’s lap and, for some reason, he got fired up about it and took Uncle Jake back behind the house. They started yelling and arguing at each other, and Dad rounded me and Mom up and we went back to the motel.”

“Did any of you go back?” I asked.

“No, no…Lord no. The way your Pap talked about him during the ride back, that relationship was over, no doubt.”

“So, he drove home and never went back, right?”

“Well, not right away. We’d already paid for the room so we spent the night. In the morning Dad said he was going to that diner to get some coffee and orange juice, but he came back empty handed.”

My old man was always tight-lipped about his family, and now I know why, but I had him on roll so I kept asking questions. “Why? That place has been open twenty-four-seven for years.”

“He said it was closed. Mom didn’t have time to argue with him about it ’cause he rushed us out of the room and into the car. Then he almost hit a fire truck as he peeled out of the parking lot. It had lights and sirens on; I guess he just didn’t see it. Anyway, Mom chewed him out, he settled down and we had a nice ride home. And that’s about it.”

It all came together; the girl, the house, Ollie, everything. Dad still didn’t have a clue, and I was thankful for that. In my heart I knew what my grandfather did, yet for some reason I didn’t feel a bit bad about it.

***

I made my run, said my goodbyes to the dock guys in Columbus, and headed east. I went through Ambridge, past my spot, and camped out behind the diner. At daybreak I went inside to clean up, and as I came out of the men’s room Julie motioned for me to look left. At his table sat Ollie, a cup of coffee and two chocolate donuts—my usual.

“Breakfast’s on Ollie,” she said. And might I add she was very easy on the eye. There’s something special about a blue-eyed redhead with a pretty smile that can charm the stress out of any man, young or old. I sat across from him not knowing what to do or say, and then he broke the ice.

“Her name is Lucinda Evans.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” The wise guy in me slipped out before I could catch it. His shoulders reared back and he stared at me like my old man used to; to freeze me when I was young and screwing up.

“Maybe…maybe not, but it means a lot to her mother. Poor little thing’s been missing some fifty years now. And she was such a delight to her family, short and petite with long blonde hair and a charming manner. The Sheriff said she was last seen with your uncle, or is it great-uncle, but he couldn’t prove anything, and the locals say they see her sometimes out on this road; walking along in her nightgown and then she ducks into the woods. We never did find her body, and all her family wants is to give her a proper Christian burial. We gave your relative one after the firemen got him out, which is more than he deserved.”

“Olli…Mr. Smithton,” I began. “I know what needs to be done. I know what I’ve got to do to make it right. But I don’t know how to without hurting my dad. It would break his heart if he found out what his dad did. Sir, you’re a wise man, and I need some help.”

He leaned back in his chair, placed his thumbs inside his suspenders and gave it a long thought. “Well…let’s see. I hear all good truck drivers keep a shovel and a few bags of sand handy, just in case they get stuck in the mud or snow. Any truth to that?”

“Yeah, I carry all that in my utility box.”

He rose slowly, placing his frailness on his cane and a hand on my shoulder.

“Do what you’ve got to do, Alex, do it today. When you find her, don’t call the police.

Call me first, and don’t forget your napkin. Good luck, son.” He patted me on my shoulder and left.

***

I parked, grabbed my shovel from the toolbox, and walked slow into the woods. I walked behind the oak tree where I last saw her and noticed a little squirrel about ten feet away. Now I’m a city boy, and I don’t know much about forest creatures and such, but this animal should be running, and it’s not. I moved closer and it didn’t. When I was two paces away it let out a screech, jumped in the air, and fled.

I put my scooper on the tiny footprints and raised my left foot. And I dug and I sweat and I dug some more. I used that tool to take all my frustrations out on God’s brown earth and I attacked it like a trapped coal miner searching for new air and then I heard it; the dull thud it made when it hit that bone, and then I knew it was all true. I sat on my knees and did something I hadn’t done in years because I’m only twenty-four and I knew I’d have to live with that sound the rest of my life, and I felt ashamed of my people. I pulled the napkin from my pocket to wipe my eyes and I saw them: three numbers, a dash and four more. I left my shovel in the shallow grave and walked away.

***

To this day, I still don’t know what it was that appeared to me that first time. Call it a ghost, or an apparition, or an angel of justice—I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know is that it’s over and the next time I shut down for a nap, I will be surrounded by concrete.

I’m done.