Authors: R. J. Blacks
My cellphone chimes and it’s a
text message. From Logan? I haven’t heard from him since December; what could
he want?
I open it:
“congrats! dean haas told me everything. can’t
wait to see you. let’s meet up. call me, logan.”
My thoughts flash back to the
day I first met him and what a dashing figure he was, charming, and handsome, wearing
that tweed sports jacket with the suede elbow patches, the quintessential
professor. I think about our ten perfect years together, and all the happy
times we shared, how much I had admired him, and how badly I wanted to be loved
by him. I think about what he always used to tell me: “I’m here for you,” and
how good that would make me feel.
And then, I think about how
he abandoned me, in my time of need, when I was most vulnerable, and how he
wanted me for his own selfish delights without commitment. I nervously edge my
finger to the keyboard contemplating a response, and then, do the unimaginable.
“Fuck you Logan!” I say to
myself, then hit DELETE.
A smile emanates across my
face, and with a clear and happy conscience, I go to bed.
My plane touches down at Daytona
International at 4:05 PM, right on schedule. That delightful feeling of weightlessness—the
one that occurs during those last seconds of flight after the engines have been
cut and the plane floats to the safety of mother earth—has now been replaced by
the roar of those monstrous engines trying their best to bring this behemoth to
a stop before it runs out of runway. I grasp the armrests tightly, preventing
myself from being thrown into the seat directly in front. The pilot taxies the
plane to the terminal and the seatbelt sign goes off. The passengers jump up in
unison and start unlatching the overhead compartments. I’m just too exhausted
to bully my way into the crowd, so I lie back in my seat and close my eyes
trying to ignore the hustle and bustle.
“Miss, miss,” I hear and
promptly open my eyes. The cabin is devoid of passengers, but standing right in
front of me is a flight attendant.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must have
dozed off,” I say.
“Happens all the time,” she
says, and strolls right past me. I shimmy out of the seat and retrieve my
carry-on from the overhead compartment. I shuffle up the empty plane with my
carry-on in tow and can’t help but peek into the open cockpit door directly
ahead. The captain and the co-pilot are still there, finishing up their paperwork.
As I exit the plane’s door, the wheels on my carry-on drop four inches to the
misaligned gangway making a loud clunk against the metal floor.
I stroll up the walkway that
leads to the terminal in solitude, and then start wondering; what would it feel
like to be a rock star and have a crowd of screaming fans waiting just beyond
that last door? But then I remind myself, there will be no one waiting for me.
No screaming fans or even friends. I drove myself here and I’ll be driving
myself back, alone.
I push open that last door to
a brightly lit terminal and look around. As suspected, there is no one here
waiting for me. No signs with my name on it.
“Miss, miss,” I hear, as I
drag my baggage to the main hallway that leads out of the terminal. I turn just
in time to see a man, about thirty, carrying a tablet computer and weaving
between rows of chairs. He’s heading in my direction and then confronts me.
“Indigo Wells?” he asks, as
he climbs over the last row of chairs that separates us, striving to catch up
to me before I disappear into the crowd.
“And you are?”
“Jim Bateman, Orlando Sun,”
he announces, with a slight British accent.
I stare at him, waiting for
an explanation.
“That’s a newspaper,” he adds.
“What can I do for you?”
“Would you comment on your
victory in Baltimore?”
“How do you know about that?”
“We saw your picture on the Internet
News Service and realized you’re a local girl.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell our readers what it
feels like to beat a multinational corporation?”
“I didn’t exactly beat them.”
“You won, didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t like I won and
they lost. It was more like a win-win-win. A victory for all.”
“Can you explain that better,”
he says, and then starts typing feverishly on the tablet.
“Well, if GWI had really lost,
I mean, like they were found guilty, they would have appealed for sure, and
that would take years, even decades, to resolve. No one wins.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple, when it’s
wrapped up in the courts, the water contamination continues. We all lose.”
“This is good; keep going. I’m
taking it down.”
“So the plaintiff wins
because the Stewarts get compensated for their loss. The defense wins because
they agreed to solve the problem; and that will generate good publicity and
increased sales. And the public wins because they get cleaner water as other
companies realize it’s good for business to improve their products. It’s a win
for everyone.”
“Of course, a win-win-win
situation!”
“Isn’t it better to work
together to solve the world’s problems, than fight it out until one party drops
from exhaustion?”
“But what about you? What do
you get out of it?”
“I’m just happy my theories
were vindicated, and because of it, we all get a cleaner environment to live
in.”
“Hey, that’s got a nice spin to
it. We’ve got to get you on the telly. Can you follow me to the studio for a
live show?”
“You know, I’m kind of
exhausted. How about another time?”
“We could put you on at five
o’clock. It might even go national.”
“I’ll tell you what; give me
a day to rest up, then, I’ll give you an interview.”
“Great! What’s your number?”
“Take this down,” I say, and
recite off the digits as he types the numbers into his tablet.
“Thanks, got it,” he says.
“One more thing. Smile.”
He raises the tablet to
shoulder height, snaps a picture, and then, makes a hasty departure, giving me
no time to rebuke him.
I suddenly realize why those
stars shun their fans. It’s not that you don’t like the attention; it’s just
that when strangers confront you, you’re expected to be the persona you’ve
taken on, all the time. You’re not a person to them, but an icon. And maintaining
that image when you’re hungry, and tired, and cranky, when you wish they would
just go away, can be challenging to say the least. It’s no wonder the rich and
famous travel incognito.
I make my way down the
hallway with my carry-on in tow and detect the heavenly aroma of fresh-ground
coffee beans. It’s from a coffee shop off to the right. I haven’t eaten since
breakfast and I’m tempted to pick up a sandwich and coffee for the trip back
home. But I decide to pass. It’s only an hour’s drive and I’m anxious to bring
Will and Fargo up to date with the exciting things that happened in Baltimore.
And more importantly, I was planning to put together a special dinner tonight
to celebrate. It won’t kill me to refrain from eating until then.
I locate my truck in the
airport parking lot and load up my things. I pay the fare at the check-out
window, exit the airport, and within minutes I’m doing seventy on the highway
heading back to Lake George. The landscape around the lake is like home to me
now, and I have no trouble finding the turn-off for Fargo’s place. I make my
way along the dirt road passing Palms, Cypress, and alternating sections of grasslands
and swamp. The sign for the Seminole Reservation appears on the left. As I
glance at it, I am shaken to the realization this may be the last time I drive
down this road. I’ve achieved my goals, what I originally came here for, and
soon I’ll be leaving. A new job and a PhD wait for me in Philadelphia, and this
adventure will fade to a memory.
But I’m sure going to miss those
guys. Fargo will probably go back to his former lifestyle, and I’m confident Will
and Juanita will eventually get married. The restaurant should provide them with
a decent income so they can buy a house of their own, and maybe even start a
family.
As I approach Fargo’s
bright new sign for Alligator Park, I catch a glimpse of a silver sports car
parked behind some bushes, as if the owner had intentionally tried to hide it.
“A poacher,” I say to myself.
It’s obvious this is not the
car of a local resident because they all drive Jeep’s, trucks, or SUV’s.
Vacationing snow-birds often sneak onto Indian land to take advantage of the
really excellent fishing because they think it’s so remote no one will notice
them. But they underestimate the passion with which Native American’s defend
their hard-fought territory. They’ve lost far too much land to take trespassing
lightly and reservation authorities have no compunction about administering a
hefty fine to the intruder, unless he can convince them it was all an innocent
mistake.
When I arrive at the house,
the parking lot is deserted except for Will’s SUV, but that’s not surprising
since we all agreed to close the grounds for a week. Juanita took the
opportunity to drive her parents to New Mexico to visit their extended family
and Will has told us he would use the free time to catch up on his
well-deserved rest. I was hoping Fargo would be around when I returned, but I
see both airboats tied up at the dock and his SUV is missing so he’s probably
at a soccer game with friends, something he does almost every Wednesday afternoon.
I park in my usual spot, grab my carry-on, and then
make my way toward the cabin.
As I get close to the porch,
I see Will reclining in his usual high-back chair. I’m bursting to tell him all
the exciting details of my trip; after all, it was he, in the very beginning,
who motivated me to come down here, and he’s every bit entitled to share my
sense of achievement and satisfaction from its amazing success. Later, after I
rest up a bit, I’ll treat him to a meal he’ll never forget, and Fargo too. I
wave, try to get his attention, but the serene calmness of the afternoon
appears to have lulled him into a well-deserved nap.
I drag my carry-on up the stairs,
one step at a time, until I reach the last one, and then drag it onto the
porch. The wheels make an annoying rumble sound as they roll along the wooden
boards so I pick it up by the handle. I walk as quietly as I can, lifting my
heels, to prevent them from rapping against the old wooden floorboards which
resonate at the slightest provocation. I stay close to the wall, putting as
much space as possible between us in an effort to avoid waking him. But then,
as I get closer, I notice he’s sitting in what appears to be a somewhat
uncomfortable position. One arm is hanging over the side, and from my limited
viewpoint, it appears his head is leaning in a way I’m certain he’ll awaken
with the most unbearable neck ache. I put down the carry-on and approach the
chair from the back.
And then I see it, blood. Red
stains all down the front of his tee-shirt and onto the chair. There appears to
be a slash across his neck and his eyes are partially open staring out with no
emotion.
I shake Will’s shoulder.
“Will, Will, wake up,” I cry
out, my voice shaking.
“Wake up, Will, please, my
God, please, wake up,” but there is no response, and then I realize, neither is
there any warmth to his body.
I grope through my purse
scrambling for my cellphone and then realize it’s still turned off from the
flight. I frantically press the “on” button and stare at the display in
unbelievable exasperation as the phone goes through its oppressively long
start-up routine.
“Hurry up,” I say to the
phone, not expecting it to make any difference except to lull me into the
illusion I’m doing something, anything, to speed it along.
“Hurry, hurry,” I repeat.
Finally the phone springs to
life and I tap out 911 followed by SEND. But nothing happens. I try it again,
carefully typing in 9-1-1 and once again pressing SEND.
I hear footsteps from the
part of the porch that wraps around the far side of the cabin, the part that is
hidden from view. They’re heavy footsteps, like the sound of boots against the
floor boards, the boots of a large man.
Fargo, I think, he’s
returned; he’ll know what to do.
A feeling of calmness
envelops me as I dash down to seek his solace, but as I round the corner, I
stop in my tracks. It’s not Fargo, but another man, the man I fear more than
anyone on the planet.
It’s Damon!
He strolls toward me,
casually, as if he’s got all the time in the world. He’s not wearing boots as I
imagined, but hard-soled dress shoes, which imitate the sound of boots against
the wooden floor boards. He’s got on his usual green designer shirt, open at
the front, and a pair of stylish dress pants.
I back off a few steps, round
the corner, and then dash back to Will’s chair. I frantically push 9-1-1 and
hit SEND. But nothing happens. He rounds the corner and stands there, at the
far end of the porch, watching me, making no effort to approach me.
“The booster’s broken,” he
says.
I study the cellphone and
then notice the unimaginable; there are no bars on the display!
“How do you know about the
booster?” I ask.
“I saw you on the news,” he
says. “Came here to congratulate you.”
He studies me for a moment.
“I like you better with blue
hair.”
He reaches into his pocket,
retrieves a roll of “Lifesavers”, and then nonchalantly unwraps one end. He
holds the opened roll at arm’s length offering me the first candy.
I shake my head “no” so he
casually takes it for himself, slips it into his mouth, and then gazes at Will.
“Shame about him,” he says,
shaking his head from side to side. “I was shocked when I saw it. Tried to get
an ambulance, but the cell didn’t work. Figured it had to be the booster.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I swear. He was like that
when I got here.”
It’s obvious the man is a
liar, and a killer, and the more I argue with him, the more opportunity he will
have to do to me what he did to Will. I have to get out of here.