"You can't be serious!" Her green eyes sparkle in the afternoon sunlight, complimenting a grin that could easily be called ear-to-ear.
"Oh yes I am, dead serious," the old man's eyes hold almost the same spark and glimmer, but dimmer, they are eyes that have been seeing 50-years longer than hers, but it doesn't matter, smiling eyes are always brightest.
She giggles, "So, you caught them fooling around, right? And they both tried to say they thought it was you and Myrtle... respectively."
"Oh, there was nothing respective about it!"
And at this she cracks up, a roaring and contagious laughter that echoes throughout the room. He finds himself chuckling as well, unable to fight the impulse.
Finally, though, he looks at her and says, "Now, I do believe we ought to get you home to your parents. They said-"
The 180 degree about-face is as immediate as a car crash and she bursts out, "how many times do I have to tell you, they're not my parents!"
His smile is wry and knowing, as if contented by his many years of experience. "You'll probably say it until my reply sinks in, or you get tired of the same argument little miss; they're your parents, foster or otherwise, as long as they are taking care of you and caring about you."
For a moment, just a moment, the young girl stares at him across a table bathed in sunlight, mouth hanging open, as if ready to press the argument. But the moment passes quickly, and she realizes that she'll never win this fight. She's known Zacharias Jones long enough to accept that he's the very definition of a stubborn old man. She drops her eyes while running her fingers through her short, curly brown hair, "fine, you win old man."
"Of course I do," his voice takes on the timbre of one who's cocky for good reason. He's an aging retiree, '66 years young' he'll tell people. He's a black man with the whitest white hair and even whiter teeth. He's been mentoring Katy Perkins for six and a half months because, even though he saw a scrawny, angry white girl when he first met her, he also saw a lot of himself in her as well, and he knew right from the start that someone would need to fix that soon, or she was heading for more trouble than she could handle, and why shouldn't it be him?
The little diner in the little town smack dab in the middle of the country has seen many customers in its many years, so it's a little rough around the edges, but as far as most people are concerned, that only adds to its charm. So now, even as the sunlight pours in through the milky, aging windows, illuminating every scratch, nick, and crack on the tables, there's still patrons streaming in and out with a steady jangle of a bell over the door, nearly the same bell over every business in the town.
Of course, Al's Diner may not get the business of the new McDonald's off the highway at the far edge of town. But it, like so many other little businesses on Main Street in the little town of Stormy Hallow, population 8,372, gets by just like it always has, and suits people there just fine.
There's nothing that the young girl, the young woman really, can say, either. The truth of the matter is that her foster parents have been nothing but caring and giving; loving even, toward her. She knew the last time she went into the system, knew it deep down, that she'd be a ward of the state until she turned 18. She knew that there was no one willing to take teens, especially those with such a troubled history. She'd steeled herself against the glaring truth of a life in a group home, the same place they sent all delinquents and other unwanted kids. But then, Mr. and Mrs. Farmer John showed up one day, just to talk. Perhaps, she though, that this was her aversion to them, these people ruined her plans, even if those plans were not ones she really wanted, it was the stubborn streak inside her, the one that said they had ruined her life. The bad one she'd been planning on.
She looked at the old man, who was, as always, watching her with a look of supreme smugness. This, at first, had been the thing she'd hated most about him. Now, however, it gave her the strangest sense of comfort. She couldn't figure that out, but it really didn't matter. It was a feeling she'd decided she liked, and wasn't about to try and explain it away. In her life, thus far, feelings that she liked had been few and far between.
A little over six month ago she stood in front of Kelly's Market, the town’s official general store. It was the only place where people could go to get everything and anything that they needed, and wanted. Kelly liked to say that she was the first one to come up with the idea of one stop shopping. She liked to say a lot of things, Kelly, god rest her soul.
A girl out of place, alone in a town so far removed from the city she'd known all of her life. She hated it, hated Ma and Pa Kettle for taking her from her home and transplanting her in this homegrown-middle-America-everyone-knows-everybody bullshit. It was the very picture of the Saturday Evening Post, true Americana in oils on canvas. The town milled along like it was completely separate from the rest of the world, which seemed to turn just a faster around it.
But she wasn't alone, already, one week in the town she'd found out that she was truly the flavor of the week, which could likely last several years, as the typical week here could drag on for months and months without end in sight. She lived the life that every kid in the bread-basket of America wanted, from the moment her homeroom teacher told the kids where she was from. At the mention of 'New York City', every one's head spun around, and mouths hung open.
Of course, she wasn't going to correct anyone. She drank in the collective gasp, the sound of her 'cool quotient' shooting straight through the roof of the magnet high school two towns away from her house. She soon discovered how much those country kids wanted to be inner city kids, how much contraband moved through the various channels of the school, and she wasn't about to tell them she grew up in New Jersey. If they liked her as a New Yorker, then she heart NYC.
So, there she was, falling back on her old tricks. The same way she'd use to get by, the way she kept her pockets lined and her head in the clouds, even when the various rent-a-'rents couldn't keep food on the table. She wanted to show off, she was going to be that kid, the inner city youth who would do the drugs, rob the liquor store and party 'til morning.
But in this place, everyone knew everybody.
She went into Kelly's, she just planned on boosting something to eat, something to take back and show off. There were plenty of things in that she could grab, and she was sure no one would even notice, they never had before. She was walking up and down the aisles, shelves lined with food, freezer cases filled with meat, racks hung with clothes. In the back of the store was the hunting section. The hunting section could almost be called a department were the rest of the store was big enough to call a department store. There were aisle upon aisle of deer urine, duck calls, tree stands and camouflage. There was a massive glass case filled with rifles, and a few hand guns, which was mounted on the wall behind another glass case, which was filled with various hunting knives.
Her eyes lit up as she looked into that case. Sitting near the back was a small knife, not near large enough to be useful for hunting, but with a small sheath and leather strapping she could easily fit around even her demure thigh. It gleamed in the light, a thin length of ivy stamped into the silver blade, and an onyx black handle. It was her. She wanted it to be her, the perfect thing to show everyone how hard she really was.
She walked around the store again, checking out where everyone was, and after awhile, being satisfied that no one of interest was paying attention to her, she returned to the glass case in the back. She slowly, but determinedly made her way to the back of case, half expecting that she'd need to break the lock just to get in before discovering that there were no locks to speak of. She slid the small mirrored door aside. It moved easily, silently gliding along its track. She made another look around and then reached into the case, grabbed her trophy, and closed it back up again quickly.
She made her way back to the front of the store and walked around a small snack display until, without too much thought she selected a small pack of Mentos and a convenience store bag of Gummi Worms, which she took to the register and paid for. Over head, a light rock station 40 miles away, between occasional drops from static, played 'Deep Inside of You' by Third Eye Blind, she surprised herself when she recognized it. After paying for her snack foods, she made her way un-surreptitiously out the front door, a little bell above her jingling a jingly good-bye.
An overwhelming feeling of adrenaline, coupled with relief swelled up inside her, and washed over top of her. She'd done it, and no matter how often she did it, she loved the way that it made her feel. It was a feeling that twisted her guts in a knot and made it hard to walk without getting wobbly-legged. Kelly's stood in the middle of the 3rd block of Main Street, on either side was a barber, a bar, a travel agency, another bar and a jewelry store. She headed down the street, to the left, toward her home on the outskirts of town, where her imfoster parents had just bought their house in a brand new development.
She got as far as the front door of the bar when a voice behind her caused her heart to leap violently into her throat, something like the shuttle that strikes the bell at those strong man games you see at carnivals, "excuse me little miss, but I believe you forgot to pay for something..."
She swung around, a look of sheer terror quickly replaced with one of faux innocence, and found herself face to chest with an aging black man with the smug look of superiority intermingled with mild concern, and genial humor. He smiled casually and tipped his oddly clean fedora to her, which looked very out of place on his head as he was also wearing a button down denim shirt and black Dickie's work pants, all of which seemed slightly too small for him on his overly tall frame.
She smiled, and as she said the words, couldn't figure out where they were coming from, "why, whatever do you mean?" She'd even batted her eyes.
He just stood there looking at her in a knowing sort of way, the corners of his mouth dropping only slightly at her response before rising back up into the smirking position they seemed most comfortable in.
"Well, I know my old eyes aren't what they used to be, Miss, but I'm pretty sure your memory isn't what mine still is. I believe in the inside pocket of that too-short skirt your wearing is quite inhabited by a small knife that you clearly just forgot to pay for."
It was unreal, she thought, the man had some sort of x-ray vision, or perhaps telepathy. She didn't remember seeing him in the store at all, and he couldn't have been anywhere that he could have seen her. She would have noticed him for sure. Yet it was more than just an educated guess. Soon, though, she realized that she was just standing there with silly look on her face, and that she would need to say or do something soon. Run, she thought, but that didn't seem right.
"I'm sorry, but you must have me mistaken for someone else," she stated in her most sweet, but matter of fact voice. With this, she turned on heel and began to walk away.
She heard his dress shoes scrape on the concrete, and before she'd realized what she was doing, she was running full gate up the street. She found herself smiling, as if this were something she'd been waiting for. She found herself wishing that she was wearing a better bra, however, even before she thought about the shoes that weren't meant for running either. She reached the corner and turned, nearly spilling over in the process and tore up to the right, spotting a small alley way behind the little bed and breakfast that acted as a parking lot and entry way for delivery vehicles to most of the business along main street and 4th avenue.
She sought refuge behind a large green dumpster, overflowing with garbage, to try and catch her breath. She didn't know why she'd run, it wasn't like the old man was going to do anything to her on the street, yet she'd felt a fear, not for her freedom, but for her safety. By the time the thumping in her chest and the whooshing in her ears had subsided, she'd realized there was an oddly familiar scraping sound of dress shoes on pavement coming closer.
She was huddle there, afraid and alone, without the first idea of where to go from here. He looked down at her, and she was struck by the range of expression he could manage all at once, now sporting a look of confusing, frustration, anger, and gentle confidence.
He spoke again, his voice even and clear, "now, I think it would be best if you surrendered the ill-gotten gains to me, and I will bring them back to Ms. Pamela for you," his smile broadened, "I'll say, 'I'm sorry Ms. Pamela, old age you know, I forgot to pay for this one.' and she'll smile at me, and everything will be alright."
The surprise on her face was clear enough that he chuckled at her. "Since your new to town," he said amidst a gentle laugh that came from deep down, "I won't rat you out. I just hope, little lady, that you take it to heart that you can't do this sort of thing here like you did back in New Jersey."
"How did you-"
"Know where you're from?" He laughed again, a hearty and jovial sound that echoed around the small alleyway, "Ma’am, you have yourself the kind of thick accent that anyone with half a brain could pick out from a mile away."
Completely dumbfound by this strange old man, offering her the absolute get out of jail free card, she slowly stood up, her head hung low, reached down into her skirt pocket handed the old man the knife. There was a moment of silence that hung in the air for far too long. Then he simply sniffed, turned on heel, and began to walk in the opposite direction. She sat down on the spot and did something she hadn't done in years. She cried, not just tears but a full-fledged sob that made her inside ached, even if she didn't know why. After that, she walked home alone.
Outside Al's diner, Zacharias Jones, and Katy Perkins blink in the same sunlight that was shining on them inside. She smiles, and without needing to make anymore goodbyes, she walks home. The old man watches on, a smile on his face, drinking in the sight of a girl he seems to be fixing.
Mr. Jones, who just sort of showed up in the dwindling town 10 years earlier and soon became a regular fixture. The old retiree wandering the streets, offering help to anyone that looked like they'd needed it. People would ask him where he came from, and he would just reply, "my last home," or, "my mom was born here, and I always thought it'd be a great place to retire," before getting to work on fixing a pipe, tacking up a new banner or dragging a paint roller across a wall. He was kind, and generous, pitching in. Soon, it seemed like he was one of those people who'd always been there, and that suited him just fine.
His home, on the poor end of town was nothing more than a rundown shack. It had once belonged to a man until the late 40's, who, after unsuccessfully attempting to court the daughter of the mayor, had committed suicide. The daughter, Missy Douglas, had urged her father to leave the house as it was, because, in the end, she realized that she'd loved him very much, and couldn't bear someone else living there. The property sat, under mayoral decree, derelict and quite abandoned. It sank into disrepair, even while newer, and better houses went up around it. After a while, the city realized that the house was still there, as if it had just appeared one day, after years of various petitions to have it removed.
Zacharias Jones now referred to it, and the 1/2 acre of land it sat on, as the Jones' Estate. He'd bought it, after to driving through the town one day in his gracefully aging Monte Carlo, and noticing a 'for sale' sign. When he signed the paper, and paid the phenomenally low price all in cash, he'd called it providence. Now, his providence was in slowly restoring the 1 bedroom 1 bath, 3 room rambler bit by bit.
Katy Perkins goes to school like any other 15 year old girl. She gets up in the morning, and spends too much time in the bathroom, luckily, she has her own. She spends far too long picking out her outfit, and barely eats anything for breakfast, shouting about being late as she runs through the kitchen on her way to catch a bus that is usually pulling away by the time she reaches the stop, so that she has to chase it half a block before it will stop to let her on.
In the last six months, she thinks, things have changed quite a bit for her. She's happy, for a start. She hasn't been happy for a long time. Her life before moving to Stormy Hallow was merely existence, years of bouncing from foster home to foster home had left her jaded. Having grown up without a stable structure left her confused and lonely. It didn't come as much of a surprise to her many case workers when she got in trouble with drugs, sex, and violence. The angst ridden kids' tri-fecta.
Now, however, she was doing well in school. She was keeping stable friends, and they were friends that weren't interesting in getting her high or drunk. She had found people who were interested in the same music she was, the same movies she was, and there was a girl on the bus she was sitting next to right now, who was going on and on about the Gilmore Girls episode from the previous night, and she nods in agreement about hoping that Rory and Lucy make up soon, because the tension is killing her.
Today is a good day, she thinks. And her first three periods of the day go by smoothly, although, she spends much of them reflecting quite a bit. This is her school life, in the magnet high school. There’s nearly the same population of students here as there is in the entire town she lives in. Here is nothing like where she came from. The bricks are red, there’s grass and a lawn, the linoleum gleams, and the chalk boards aren’t covered in graffiti. The bathrooms are well lit, there are doors on the stalls, there aren’t cigarette butts in the sinks, and the mirrors aren’t cracked and milky. It’s much better world.
It's in the middle of her fourth period social studies class, where the teacher stands in front of everyone, talking about family history, a subject that Katy typically has had very little interest in, that she comes out of her stupor. Mr. Wachkowski is talking about a report, which is supposed to count for half of their grade for the term. The report is to be on one their Grandparents. Katy begins to wonder about this, in a somewhat nervous way, because she has never known her parents, let alone her grandparents.
But, and she hates herself for thinking about it, she’ll be expected to write about her foster parents’ parents. She can’t bear the thought of writing a report about those people, all of which died before she was taken in. Except Granpa Marty, who’s never been able to make a coherent sentence that she can remember. The only thing she really remembers about him was that his room in the nursing home smelled horribly of feces, and, they all sat around talking to him while he drooled and shit himself.
All of these things she thinks while the teacher drones on and on about how we can learn from the history of those that came before us. Mr. Wachkowski says, “There’s always something you can learn from those that have come before you. Remember, they’ve lived longer and have already learned many of the lessons you’re not even aware you’ll need to overcome yet.”
It's more than that though, apart from fear from failing, and anger at her "unique" situation, something else worms its way into her mind. She thinks about what it would mean to write about someone that she cares deeply for, someone that she would considered closer to family than her foster parents; the answer is almost too obvious.
"Mr. W?" The rest of the class are filing out of the room, the bell having rung only a minute before, and the last few stragglers have finished putting their things in backpacks and are milling their way toward the door. The room is so typical of high school social studies. The walls are paneled all around with cork boards, bordered with patterns of flags of various countries. There are posters, flow charts depicting the world that surrounds them. There's a massive copy of the Declaration of Independence.
"Mm hmm," David Wachkowski seems lost in reflection while staring at the computer screen of his eMac, the educational equivalent of the iMac. He slowly takes his eyes from the screen and sees his student in front of him, "I'm sorry, yes Katy, how can I help you?"
"Well..." She somehow feels a sense of foreboding, as if what she's about to ask is wrong.
Suddenly, her teacher's face seems to fall, "I'm so sorry Katy, I meant to talk to you about this assignment, given your-"
He seems to be searching for words, and that's nearly as bad as just saying the wrong thing. "You have a unique situation," he says firmly, "I'm more than willing to excuse you from the assignment."
"No, sir," she decides that she might as well just go for it, "no, I just wondered if I could write about someone.... else?"
Mr. Wachkowski is a man in his 50's with thick salt and pepper hair and the average build of a man who doesn't exercise quite enough, but still relatively fit just the same. His dress hails to another era, wearing blue pleated dress pants and a brown sweater-vest with leather patches on the elbows. The first time you see him, you might think he's on his way to a costume party, playing the "Professor from the 50's". On his nose is perched a pair of Horned Rimmed Glasses, the lenses of which are so thick that his eyes are magnified to twice their size when you look directly at them. Under his nose is an immaculately well trimmed mustache and beard, the same salt and pepper color as the hair on top of his head.
He considers for a moment, a look of interest washing over his face. After this moment he says, "What did you have in mind then, Katy?"
She shifts her weight, being somewhat uncomfortable, and says, "Zacharias, he's been mentoring me for a while now. I've really kind of come to think of him like a Grandfather."
Mr. W sits silently for a moment, considering this proposition, and then says, "That sounds like a great idea, I can't wait to read it!"
Katy's face breaks into a smile, despite herself, and she mumbles some thanks before turning and running out of the room.
Zacharias Jones drags the brush across the wall, spreading a thin layer of white primer over the yellowing surface of the exterior wall of his family room. His face is screwed up in concentration as beads of sweat congregate around his wrinkled temples. Although he seems strained, and his hands shake a bit with age, a look of shear contentment is there as well.
The knock on the door distracts him, and he turns his attention to the window, which can be seen over his shoulder. Through the faded, semi-translucent, cream colored curtains can be seen the clear outline of a teenage girl wearing a bright colored sun dress and pig tails in her hair.
The old man chuckles to himself as he checks his watch, it is late afternoon and the sun is shining brightly through the south-west facing window. He doesn’t remember having a standing date for this evening, but, Katy is always welcome in his humble home. He crosses the half painted room, passing a tarp covered couch and a small utility ladder with a paint tray hung firmly from the side.
“Hey there, bright eyes!” He exclaims happily.
He rolls her eyes. He always calls her that, and while she’s given up trying to get him to stop, it doesn’t get any easier to hear. The sound of old blues music hisses from an ancient, single speaker phonograph in the corner, pops and scratches overlay the old whine of a steel guitar. The man wails a sad tale about the roughness that is his life in the south during the post depression era.
She steps through the door he’s holding open for her, “Hey Old Man, how’s tricks.”
Katy walks into the living room, and sets her bag down next to an aging wooden telephone stand, although it doesn’t hold any such device, it is instead piled with various pieces of colorful junk mail. One of them, a predominantly blue flyer with pictures of golden colored coins, falls to the floor as her bag settles against the rickety wooden structure. It flutters aimlessly to the floor and floats along the wooden planks before coming to a stop under the old man’s brown leather loafer.
“Now, I know I’m old,” He says, “but, I don’t remember us having plans this evening.” He raises an eyebrow at her before bending down to pick up the junk mail at his feet. With a loud groan from the strain, he continues, “Of course, you know how feeble this old mind of mine is.”
She looks at him, her hands on her hips, and replies, “You know I don’t buy that old man act. You might fool the rest of them around here, but you don’t fool me!”
He smiles at her, and then snaps back upright and moves quickly out of the room, from the kitchen he says, “Alright little lady, to what do I owe the pleasure? Oh, and would you like some tea?”
She mocks a British accent, “Oh yes please, and some crumpets too, sir.”
At this he laughs loudly, and sets to work getting a tea pot on the stove. Katy moves into the dining room, which isn’t so much a room as the area in the living room between the living room and the door to the kitchen. It happens to house a small table, room enough for two people, so long as the dishes stay in the kitchen. She pulls out an old white chair, with paint cracking and worn and sets down roughly. The chair creaks, even under her minimal weight. The tea kettle screams and there’s the tinkling of dishes as its voice settles down.
The old man shortly re-enters the room, with a small tea service. Two small cups with floral patterns, and silver tea pot, smudged and covered with a thin layer of yellow grease. He pours them each a cup before she finally opens her mouth.
“I came by,” she says, “because I need your help with a homework project.”
He looks at her over his cup, blowing steam away from the surface of the thin brown liquid, before taking a sip. He closes his eyes a moment, savoring the flavor and says, “Really? How can this old man help a sharp young lady like you?”
“I thought I told you to knock that off,” she replies, a wry smile creasing her lips, “we’re doing a report in our Social Studies class. It’s supposed to be on our Grandparents, we’re supposed to find out about their past, and find out what they can teach us with their age.”
“Uh huh,” he says, “I don’t know what that’s got to do with me, now.”
She smiles, sheepishly, and says, “Well… since I don’t know my grandparents. Mr. W says I can do the report on someone else.”
The old man just sits there, watching the young girl over his tea cup. He just nods his head a bit and makes an imploring face, urging her to go on.
“Well… Well, I thought I’d write about you.”
He smiles, again, a shrewd look stretches across his leathered visage. There’s a twinkle in his eye, a look of triumph, and something not unlike pride. He says, “Now, I’m not your Gran’dad, why would you be doing some report about me?”
She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, the life she’s lived; it doesn’t leave room for complimenting people. She searches for the words to use, something that will explain a succinctly as possible how she feels, but with enough vagueness to keep her from saying those things she doesn’t want in her lexis.
“Well, I figure it’s in the spirit of things, you being so old and all.”
At this he chuckles, and sets down his tea cup, “Well, that does have the ring of sensibility to it.”
The two sit in silence, as the needle scratching on the vinyl bounces up and down over the speaker. The hisses remains resolute, but and there’s an unvarying noise up and down on the lead-out. After a few minutes she says finally, “So, will you do it?”
He considers her for a moment, and says, “What I got to do then?”
“Just answer some questions. It’ll be easy.”
He smiles again and then just nods in submission. He gets up and clears the table. When he reaches the kitchen notices the aging lime green clock set into the stove. He shouts, “You know Katy, ought to be getting’ on now, though, your parents-“
He stops, instinctively, expecting the inevitable shouting match about to ensue. Instead, though, Katy appears in the doorway with her school bag slung over her shoulder. She says, “I know, I’m going home now. So, this weekend?”
He flashes his bright white smile and agrees, “yeah, this weekend’ll be fine chil’.”
It gets hot around middle of the day in Middle America during the summer. Not just hot, but sweltering. And oppressively humid. It’s not unusual to find people fanning themselves in the dog days while walking through the park. They carry bottled water with them, beads of condensation drip to the concrete slabs. Some people sit under trees, far away from Picnic Tables in the open, baking under the sun, and they’ll eat box lunches on thick blankets.
That’s how it is come Saturday as Zacharias Jones and Katy Perkins walk aimlessly through the park. The sun overhead beats down, persistently, incessantly. They don’t notice, though, as they wend their way around the long walking paths, leading out from City Park, into the larger Regional Park. The sweeping lawns, well groomed and flat, give way to thick trees, old as time itself. All along the signs tell the passerby all about the various trees and flowers.
Acer negundo is a species of maple native to North America. Box Elder and Boxelder Maple are its most common names in the United States. In Canada it is known as Manitoba Maple.A. negundo is a small, usually fast-growing and fairly short-lived tree that grows up to 10-25 m tall, with a trunk diameter of 30-50 cm, rarely up to 1 m diameter. It often has several trunks and can form impenetrable thickets.
The shoots are green, often with a whitish to pink or violet waxy coating when young. Branches are smooth, somewhat brittle, and tend to retain a fresh green colour rather than forming a bark of dead, protective tissue.
Unlike most other maples (which usually have palmate leaves), A. negundo has pinnate leaves have three to seven leaflets (usually three). Although some other maples (such as A. griseum, Acer mandshuricum and the closely-related A. cissifolium) have trifoliate leaves, only A. negundo regularly displays more than three leaflets.
Leaflets are about 5-10 cm long and 3-7 cm wide with slightly serrate margins. Leafs have a translucent light green colour and turn yellow in fall.
The flowers are small and appear in early spring on drooping racemes 10-20 cm long. The seeds are paired samaras, each seed slender, 1-2 cm long, with a 2-3 cm incurved wing; they drop in autumn or may persist through winter. Seeds are usually both prolific and fertile.
Unlike most other maples, the A. negundo is fully dioecious and both a "male" and "female" tree are needed for either to reproduce.
The old man tells stories, tales that he unravels like string from a ball. He tells her stories about growing up during what he called ‘the dark days’. A world of segregation. He talks of life in the south as he grew up; he talks of hanging out with his buddies and raising hell. He tells her about meeting a woman, and settling down, and then tells the sad story of how it was when he survived her, as it said on the funeral program. And then young girl is crying.
They walk for hours, and they talk forever. It’s a long day, and she keeps on asking him to tell her stories.
They’re just about back to his car, his beat up 1973 Ford Pick-up, and she asks about his hometown, about why he left and came to Stormy Hollow. She says, she knows he says he spent time with his Aunt and Uncle there, but why’d he come back. She expects him to say something about being happy there when he was a kid, or perhaps something about a lovely summer.
Instead, though, he stops dead. He says to her, “You know, I think I’ve answered enough for today. You know, it’s hard for a man to talk about what’s been sometimes. Sometimes the past, it just needs to stay in the past.”
She opens her mouth, and she’s about to say something. He stops her short with a look she knows only too well, and she just hangs her smiles, one of those weak smiles that proclaims her defeat. They walk in silence, and he looks at her, and he says, “come on, now, I don’t want to end today on a sour note.”
“No, that’s not it,” she says, “I guess I just didn’t think about how this would make you feel, reliving your life and everything.”
“Child, I relive my life every day, and the longer it goes on, the harder it is to keep living and reliving at the same time.”
