I moved slowly to my recliner, slumping down and keeping my eyes riveted to the tube. Reaching for my beer, I sipped and kept watching. It was heating up now, the current national champion had just thrown the contender for a loop and he was flattened on the mat as the referee began a countdown and finally declared, "Knockout!" A punch in the solar plexus had done him in, dammit!
I closed my eyes and drew deeply on my cigar, a savory Tampa Sweet. Cheap though they were, I preferred them to more expensive brands. Besides, at the rate I smoked the damn things, I couldn't afford higher priced cigars!
The announcer was winding down, giving a roundup of last details for the bout, when Marge appeared in the arched doorway. One glance at her tight little smile told me she was on the verge of another nagging session. I stood and flipped off the TV.
I went to put another log on the fire and chunked up the smoldering embers. January was a bleak, cold time, even below the Mason and Dixon line.
Marge, her red hair askew from her ardent enterprises in the studio, stood with her arms propped on her slender hips. It was hard to believe, looking at her thin, pinched face, that I'd once thought she was an Ann Margaret look-alike. Shit, that'd been a long time ago!
Both of us lacked the sparkle of youth, since we were well past sixty. I was no better off than Marge -- balding, muscle now gone to just plain fat, and my stocky frame not what it once was, I didn't have the brutish, rough-handsome appeal of my younger days. No, I was simply a tough-looking old fart -- flattened nose, crooked from being broken in my boxing days, and thick lips stretched across a bulldogish face.
Marge walked quietly to the sofa and sat down, staring at me. "Rufus, that flannel shirt doesn't go with those polyester pants."
I wiped off my hands on the beige pants, remarking, "What of it? No one here but you and me."
Marge shifted around uncomfortably and said nothing, letting her icy stare speak for her.
I walked to the wide window and pulled back the curtains. It was dark outside but I could make out the edge of my barren garden plot. It was a depressing sight; at least in summer months I could avoid Marge by gardening.
"Rufus, I was thinking...how about us having that heart-to-heart talk you promised?"
"Not now. I'm not in the mood."
"You're never in the mood!" Her voice was shrill and irritated.
Shrugging, I went to slump back into my recliner. I crushed the beer can and said, "One day...but not just now." Tossing the can into a nearby wastebasket, I leaned back, putting my feet up and closing my eyes as dismissal.
"Oh no you don't Rufus! I want us to talk, and there's not a reason in the world why now can't be the right time!" Marge was suddenly pacing the room, her blue eyes filled with fire. "Years of this silence, years of not sharing..."
"Sharing? Hell, haven't I always told you most everything that happens in my life? Each day I give you a rundown..."
"Sure, of events, of the news...but what about how you feel, your emotions, for God's sake?"
"Don't start Marge, just don't start, hear?" I swiped a hand over my face and then reached for a cigar, lighting up and puffing it hurriedly.
"Can't you just for one minute tell me how you feel inside, your real feelings...and..." Marge trailed off at the sight of my clenched jawline. When would she ever understand that a man had no need to vent his innermost feelings...like women did! Christ, she was more than I could take sometimes.
I stood and gave a disgusted grunt. "I'm going to bed Marge. It's late and I want to check on that cab job tomorrow."
"That! Why can't you just stay home and be happy with your free time? Honestly, ever since you retired, you've been such a whiner!"
"Not now Marge. I told you, I'm not in the mood." And with that, I crossed the den, checked the kitchen door to make certain it was locked and went down the hall into our bedroom. I could hear Marge bustling around and knew she would be to bed shortly. Hopefully, I'd be asleep by then.
But, it didn't quite work out that way. After tossing and turning for hours, I finally crawled out of bed and headed to the kitchen. I raided the refrigerator and sneaked out some cold fried chicken, a beer and sweet pickles, one of my favorite midnight snacks.
Sitting in my recliner, I watched a dim flicker dying in the fireplace. Munching on the chicken, I listened to the sound of a cold wind blowing around the corner of the house. And my mind slipped back to when we'd moved here.
Canson, Alabama sounded like a nice, peaceful place for our retirement. After all, it had long been our dream to return here and escape the cramped city life back in Detroit, Michigan. We'd both worked the required number of years in an auto plant for our deserved retirement. Although I was born and raised in Canson, after a ten year stint as a coal truck driver, I'd moved on to better things by heading north and tackling the car factories.
That's where I'd met Marge, a swell gal with fantastic looks. She was thirty, a native of Detroit, living with her folks. At her age, she was feeling like an old maid.
I was already thirty-three, so we neither desired children. Our wedding was simple and we settled down to routine city life.
We both worked side by side at Chrysler; but, from the first, Marge'd had this thing about sharing our feelings. Hell, what she asked was the impossible. I mean, there just weren't any gushing sentimental feelings or touching emotions bursting to get out of me! Luckily, back in Detroit, she'd had her own set of girlfriends whom she confided in and they seemed to pacify her. But ever since we'd moved here, she'd been nagging unmercifully about this sharing thing...
When we moved back to Canson, after thirty years in Detroit, it still seemed to be the same small town I'd left. It was as if progress had passed it by, even still a dry county, no liquor sales. The population remained fixed because kids left and few returned until they grew old; there just wasn't any future in jobs here.
I sipped on my beer and listened to the wind moaning. We'd been living in this older restored frame house on Azalea Street since last spring. I'd done some minor carpentry work -- screened in a big front porch and paneled a wide den that served as kitchen/den/dining area at the back of the house.
While I wasn't exactly the lazy sort, I could enjoy peace. But, the monotony got on my nerves when summer ended and there was little diversion from Marge's prodding.
The vegetable garden and carpentry had provided outlets, hobbies, and now, in the midst of winter, I was finding seclusion and idleness unbearable.
Marge should be understanding. She had lots of hobbies, even a devoted passion for her art. She'd painted oils back in Detroit, some of the wharf with ships in port, even the skyline of Detroit as seen from the Ambassador Bridge that links Canada and America. Those had brought an astonishing price, but she'd been modest in the praise received. Now, she'd gone nuts over her latest fancy -- sketches in pen and ink of crumbling junkyards all around the southern countryside. Last fall, she'd won two first place awards at the county fair exhibits. And still, she couldn't understand my complaints of being bored, having nothing to fill the empty time!
But, tomorrow would be different. I placed the chicken bones, empty beer can and crushed napkins in the trashbasket. Standing, I stretched my arms overhead and sighed. Tomorrow I was trying for a job with Lucky Joe Driscol's Cab Company.
Shit, I thought groggily, being a hack is natural for me! I was sleepy all of a sudden and went down the hall quietly, slipping into bed beside Marge. She was snoring lightly and I pulled the covers close, trying to shut out the noise. I had to sleep, tomorrow would be an interesting day, the first in a long, long time!
Monday morning I was dressed promptly at seven o'clock. Marge even approved of my matched corduroy pants and flannel shirt. I kissed her good-bye at the door and waved as I backed from the driveway in our small economical Mazda.
Bright sunshine helped take the chill out of wintry air, but still I flipped on the heater. It was only a short drive down two blocks to what was the equivalent of mainstreet in Canson -- a wide thoroughfare bisecting the few businesses and shops called, "Canson Boulevard."
I swung onto the boulevard and soon spied Lucky's Cab Company, a bricked, canopied building occupying the corner of Magnolia Street. Two large, dull-green Ford sedans were parked alongside the curb and I pulled in behind them, parking parallel to the sidewalk.
I studied the cabs a moment, noting the yellow orb atop the cars which were emblazoned with "Lucky's Cab." Then I peered at the bricked building, narrow windows and obscured interior. Canson was quiet in the morning sunlight and I glanced around at empty sidewalks. A few cars were pulling into stores, people arriving for work, and soon things would be hustling. But for now, I had the distinct opportunity of seeing the small, quaint town for its peacefulness. With a population of only 5,000, it wasn't exactly hectic. Everyone was laid back and low-key.
Or that's what I thought until I walked into the cab company. The first person I saw was a young frantic man rushing madly to and fro, barking orders like a Drill Sergeant. He was short, dark-haired, had a thin, stringy black mustache, shifty black eyes and swarthy complexion -- and was noticeably intense.
I stopped at the door, watching him pacing and snapping orders, his attention wavering between the dispatch station and a huge schedule plastered above a wooden counter. He looked around age thirty, but it was hard to tell.
An old man, wrinkled beyond belief, sat behind the dispatch radio. He cackled and scratched his shiny bald head. "Lucky, ain't no call to git so worked up. We'll handle those folks..." He noticed me for the first time and looked startled, then told Lucky, "Got company."
Swarthy Joe Driscol spun around and practically clicked his heels, his voice clipped and precise, "Can I help you mister?"
"I saw your ad...in the little newsletter last week. Thought I might make a good hack." My eyes took in his immediate energy and enthusiasm as his mustache seemed to twitch while he studied me.
He spoke tersely, "I do believe you are the Lord's own messenger! Do you have a valid driver's license? Believe me mister, we could use a qualified driver right about now!"
The old man guffawed and wheezed. "Ain't it the truth!"
I walked over to the wooden counter that ran the length of the room and leaned on it easily. "I was once a truckdriver, have a driver's license and haven't had a car accident in ten years."
"You're hired!" Lucky strode briskly over and pumped my hand energetically. "What's the name?"
"Rufus Strong."
"Glad to know you, Rufus. I'm Joe Driscol and that old codger over there is my dispatcher, Zack. You can call me Lucky." He turned loose of my hand and coughed. "Sorry to spring things on you so sudden...but, I'm in a real fix. See, there's going to be a Senior Citizen's Day at the county seat, up in Gentry, and I need two drivers to help ferry those old folks to the place."
I was more than glad to hear this news and knew I had my foot in the door. "Well, I can start right now, this very minute."
"Damn fine! Zack, radio out to Pete's and see if he's on his way in. Pete's my other driver."
Zack jerked the mike close to his toothless mouth, and keyed into the airway...
Lucky said, "Now, if you'll just come in here to my desk," and he headed toward a cubbyhole in back of the open room where Zack sat. There were numerous maps, schedules and assorted oddities cluttering the expansive interior walls.
Inside the office, I sat down in a folding metal chair facing his desk. He handed me a stack of forms and requested I fill them out fast. "Not to press you, understand. But, the sooner you get them finished, the sooner I can get you on the road."
I was eager and quickly scanned the forms, seeing instantly they were only a legal means of sealing our mutual agreement. It took fifteen minutes to complete them and then Lucky shook my hand, smiling thinly, the black mustache crazily tilted and turning the smile into a sinister sneer.
Lucky struck me as a sneaky, secretive type. His narrow face, black eyes and thin lips gave him the appearance of a ferret. But then, perhaps my suspicious nature was getting carried away. Maybe I'd been housed up in that damn den listening to Marge's nagging so long that I was loony? For damn sure, I needed some relief from boredom; but for now, I'd better lay off the character analysis.
By noon, I was driving one of the Ford sedans up to Gentry, the backseat crammed with several elderly folks. It was my last run of the day. The old folks only spoke occasionally. I was smoking a Tampa Sweet cigar and asked if it bothered them. They replied no, and kept quiet.
The bleak countryside was even somewhat appealing; wide open spaces of fallow fields, cattle pastures and rolling hills made the twenty mile trip go by fast. My salary would be minimal, but hell, I'd have taken the job for no money! I was dying for some activity and diversion!
When I whipped into Gentry County Courthouse, I turned to the folks and told them the fare. Not only were they reluctant to pay the steep price, but I was surprised at the fee. Lucky had instructed me on the black-boxed meter that tallied the cost according to mileage, and I was stunned at the exorbitant numeral that appeared in the indicator. But, this was the last trip, and they had to pay as promised for the whole group.
Almost apologetically, I took the elderly folks' money. But something was repulsive about charging them so much; they were barely getting by and in today's world, that wasn't saying anything good. Still, I was damn glad to have the job!
Back in Canson, I dropped by the post office before checking back in. I went into the cement-blocked building off the corner of Camellia Street. It still amazed me how every street in Canson was named for a flowering shrub that thrived in the sunny South. Considering there was only a limited number of streets in the whole town, it hadn't been a bad idea. At least it was a distinction over neighboring towns; a special touch of the town's forefathers.
I picked up mail from my post office box in the lobby and then hurried back outside. On the sidewalk, I accidentally bumped into a young girl. We were both flustered and embarrassed by the incident.
I finally got untangled and looked into the clearest set of brown eyes I'd ever seen. She was small, didn't look a day over ten. Her long waist-length black hair and straight bangs set off a heart-shaped face that was pale as alabaster. She seemed fragile; something about her reminded me of a skittish colt, when first approached. My thoughts had caught me by surprise and I finally babbled, "Excuse me, I wasn't looking where I was going..."
She blushed, actually turned crimson in the face. "Me either. It was my fault, I was rushing...and..."
"No, no. It was my fault." I laughed and she smiled, which seemed to lighten the dreary winter day.
I just stood silently as I noticed the tattered clothing she wore -- patched jeans, jacket and scruffy shoes. It suddenly seemed as though I knew her from somewhere and I asked, "Haven't I seen you around town?"
"Uh...maybe...uh, I..." she stammered and stopped, pausing to compose herself. "I live down the street, off Rose Street, at the edge of town."
"That's right, I've seen you riding your bike down the sidewalk."
"I go to the bookstore every day, in the afternoon, down past Lucky's cab company." She blushed again and added. "I like to read."
"Yes, that's where I've seen you. Well, I'm sorry I ran over you."
"No, it was my fault."
I laughed. "Let's not go into that act again."
She sighed. "Okay. Nice to meet you, Mr...?"
"Rufus Strong. I live on Azalea Street, bought the old Camp's place last spring."
"I gotta go now..."
"Sure thing. By the way, what's your name?"
"Jennifer Pate. But you can call me Jenny, and I'm thirteen." She smiled sweetly and then sprinted off down the street, just like a newborn colt that was somehow unsure of itself.
Back in the Ford, I brooded a minute. Hadn't I heard last summer that the bookstore was only a front for a notorious bootleg liquor operation in this dry county? Why, if that was true, would such a young girl be visiting that place?
Starting the car, I pulled across the boulevard and whipped into Lucky's curbside parking area. It was puzzling and I resolved to ask around about Jennifer Pate.
Walking to the building, I suddenly felt like a fool. The very first day I was out and active and what did I do? Start conjuring up all sorts of crazy, goofy ideas. Damn, I thought, what in the hell is the matter with me? Maybe I AM getting old!
Scratching my chin with irritation, I went inside to end my first day's tour of duty on the new part-time job. And, when I headed home, I tried to dismiss my foolish ideas. Still, there seemed to be a nagging thought in the back of my mind about the bookstore...
It was going to be another sleepless night. I tossed and turned again, finally getting up to sit alone in the darkened den. The same cold wind was howling and I shivered, pulled my thick robe close and sat down in the recliner. It had been a typical evening -- delicious supper (Marge is an excellent cook) and then a cozy evening with firelight and TV shows. Naturally, Marge grumbled about the TV; she hated it. And then she nagged about our "sharing," whatever the hell that was; and then, we went to bed.
Except, I had managed to have a few private moments alone in the den before we turned in. Marge wanted to put some finishing touches on her latest prize sketch. I called Jacob Walters, the post office clerk, casually asking about Jenny Pate. And what he told me was what was keeping me awake and brooding.
Walters told me bluntly that Jenny's mother had died with leukemia three years ago; that the father was suspiciously reclusive. Suspiciously, I'd asked. He said yes, the father was an insurance salesman who had been missing a lot of work for some time, and that created gossip around town. But what he concluded with was unusual: Jenny's grandparents were the direct descendants of Canson's most prominent family. They were wealthy and tried their best to get Jenny away from her father after their daughter's untimely death. Walters humphed and said it'd never happen; Jenny loved her father devotedly. I finally thanked him profusely and said I'd met her and was just curious. Walters seemed unimpressed. As the town gossip, he was used to such phone calls.
Now, sitting quietly and reflecting, I couldn't determine exactly why I'd checked up on Jenny. She seemed like such a good kid....but looked somehow...sad, stressed. But she had her Dad there for her; surely, she would talk to him about any problems. I thought suddenly that maybe I was getting soft in my old age; it wasn't often I felt this kind of concern for a total stranger -- and a kid at that. It was just that Jenny seemed special; she could have been the child I never had, or a grandchild, and that was a disturbing thought. Hell, I'd never wanted children...had never even wondered what fatherhood could have meant.
I got to my feet and headed back to bed. This introspection wasn't my style; hell, I was too set in my ways to start tampering with inner feelings. To my way of thinking, feelings were just there and I'd never seen any need to verbally or mentally dissect them. And damn if I was going to start now, just because of one little skittish colt of a girl, who reminded me of what might have been...
"Marge, don't start. I'm in a hurry..." I gulped down the lukewarm black coffee and crammed the last big bite of sugared doughnut into my mouth. Chewing, I looked at Marge's grimace and frowned myself. "No nagging this morning. I'll be late for work."
"Work! Is that what driving a cab is to you?"
"Damn sure is. Now," I swallowed and wiped my mouth with a napkin, "where's my thickest winter jacket?"
Marge gave me a put-upon look and stood, swiping at her mused gray hair. "I'll get it." She turned away and then, shrugging, turned back to face me. "All this scurrying around won't solve the problem, Rufus. Feelings can't be hidden by activity."
"For chrissake, will you give it a rest? All you do is nag, nag, nag. The way you carry on, it's a wonder I don't just walk out and never come back!" I was instantly sorry I'd said that. She slumped and trudged off down the hallway. Damn, I hated hurting her but why couldn't she see it just wasn't in me to carry on like a true confessions story?
Finally, she returned with my fleece lined suede jacket. I slipped it on over my flannel shirt, checking the pockets for change. I jingled the loose coins and smiled. "Big day ahead, might need some hot coffee."
Marge suddenly smiled and for just a second, it was as if time had leaped backwards and she was the young Ann Margaret look-alike I'd married.
"Have a good day, sweetheart." She came over and kissed me on the cheek. "Bundle up and stay warm. That rain may turn into sleet later."
"Now that's more like it. I know it's not what you want; that you think I should just enjoy retirement, but I don't have anything like you do. Your art is a whole world for you. I just need something..."
"Oh sweetheart, I don't care for you working at the cab company. I know you need it. What I want is for you to be open and share all those bottled up feelings that we never had time to share."
"Christ, just when I thought you'd stopped this nagging..." I placed my finger over her lips and kissed her cheek, lightly touching a curled lock of her hair. "I'll be in around one o'clock. Just after lunch, so even if it does sleet, I'll be safely back home by then."
She forced the smile again and laughed. "Okay, no more for today. So long soldier!" She gave a mock salute and I had to chuckle. Marge had a great sense of humor, but lately I hadn't seen it nearly enough!
The morning was dreary, lots of rain and slick streets. I was an expert on slippery streets; living in Detroit had prepared me for just about any kind of hazard.
Lucky was his usual busy self, running back and forth from his office to the dispatch station. Zack was wrapped up in a heavy coat, only his toothless gums showing a thin grin.
Lucky got a hard look in his black eyes when I mentioned the high cab fare for the old folks. He paced around and then abruptly stopped, his black mustache twitching sarcastically. His voice was the same clipped tone, but there was a note of warning in it. "Old folks is same as others. Anybody riding in my cabs pays the rate, no breaks allowed."
I thought he was being unduly tough. But, what the hell, it wasn't my business!
I went on calls all morning, picking up mostly elderly folks who needed groceries and were afraid it would sleet, maybe even snow in the afternoon. Canson has a large population of elderly; they seemed to like the small town and some have come here from northern states. Being located in north Alabama, the region usually has mild winters, but occasionally there is a freak ice or snow event. Of course, many were natives, just grown old in their hometown.
I also had a few women passengers, housewives without cars. They usually had a baby or youngster with them, and I caught myself being entertained by the precocious two and three year olds. Damn, why this sudden interest in kids?
And then, just before my shift ended at noon, I saw her again. Jenny, that is. She was walking rapidly down the sidewalk as I sat inside the cab company. I just caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye, and jumped up, hurried to the doorway and saw the last of her billowing yellow raincoat as she flew past the pawnshop and turned the corner toward the bookstore. Damn, it was cold and I shivered, thinking of her in that thin, raggedy raincoat.
I shook my head to clear away the fog of concern and saw Zack staring oddly at me. He spoke in a somber tone, "Sad, ain't she?"
"Who, the little girl that just ran by outside?"
"Shore is. Poor thing, ain't no use you worrying over her. Hain't nothing can be done..."
"What you mean?" I asked with more gusto than I should have.
"She makes that trip almost every day...sad, real sad, ain't it?" Zack hung his head, shrugging his shoulders in a gesture of defeat.
"I don't know what you're talking about..."
Zack shook his bald head and said, "About the bookstore..."
When he stopped in mid-sentence, I looked up to see Lucky glaring at him from the office door. "Not spreading gossip, are you Zack? Thought you needed this job."
I was silent, my mouth tight with unspoken questions. What was going on between Lucky and Zack? Why that sinister look on Lucky's swarthy face?
But, I never learned. Lucky said, in his clipped tone, "Time for you to head home, Rufus. You get some rest. Might need you tonight if the streets ice over."
"Fine by me," I said, surprised he'd order me around without so much as an inquiry first.
"I mean," he corrected, "if you would care to help out, I'd pay you double time?"
"Sure thing." I headed out the door and had a strange feeling of foreboding. Shit, wasn't that ridiculous? A man my age getting an ESP flash when I didn't even believe in the damn stuff? But, honest to God, on my short drive home, I felt a chill of apprehension. Something was rotten in Canson, and I was beginning to smell the stench...
"Look at that sleet," Marge said, staring out the wide windows in our den. I walked over and held back the curtain, peering at a semi-white world. Bare limbs on the weeping willow, sycamore and pecan trees were glazed and frozen stiff as pokers. Here and there, scattered about the lawn, garden plot and row of evergreen shrubbery were patches of snowy drifts. Rain had turned to sleet mixed with snow flurries. It was going to be a hazardous night for driving.
"Isn't it beautiful, Rufus?" Marge murmured, nudging my shoulder with her head. I put my arm around her and felt the reassurance of her closeness. I love Marge, really love her, and these upsetting sessions of nagging were getting to me. I snuggled up to her and held her tighter.
"Marge, we may get snowbound," I warned in a husky voice, moving to kiss her softly, my lips pressing gently to hers, my very lifeblood beginning to simmer with her touch, her whispered, "I love you Rufus..."
A jangling ring of the phone cut our lovefest short I pulled away with a sigh of frustration and went to answer. "Hello."
"Say Rufus, how about coming in to drive the cab? Got an emergency...an old lady fell and needs to get to the hospital."
"What about ambulance service?"
"Not way down here to Canson! She'll be half crazed by the time those jokers up in Gentry get underway." He coughed and said gruffly, "Look, she needs help. I just thought you'd be the best choice, with your driving experience. The one deputy who usually comes here on patrol is tied up with another emergency! Everybody's tied up, the sleet is goddamn awful!"
I didn't hesitate long, and gave Marge an apologetic face. "Okay, be right over. Tell you what, start putting on those chains we saw in the garage."
"Will do. Hurry on over."
The line went dead and I replaced the receiver. Marge was shaking her head and frowning. "Rufus, it's dangerous out there..."
"Yeah, but I can handle it. Remember all those times in Detroit, ferrying you all over the damn city in knee deep snow?"
She grinned and reluctantly went to get my suede jacket. As I slipped into it, I said, "Don't worry, I'll be extra careful. It's an old lady, she needs to get to the hospital in Gentry."
"Not getting soft, are you? Helping all these old folks?"
"Not a chance," I snapped, almost brutally. I gave her a perfunctory kiss and jerked open the back door. Hell, I was tough as nails! What did she mean by saying I was getting soft? But, grudgingly I had to admit I was acting a bit strange!
The streets were slippery and I had to slip-slide my way carefully over to Canson Boulevard, easing along with extreme caution. I'd learned a long time ago that you didn't try to go fast and stop fast on slick streets or you were a goner! Easy does it, I thought, on my perilous two blocks to the cab company.
Dim visibility and darkening skies looked threatening as I pulled to an unsteady stop behind my cab. It was ready; the chains hugged the tires and gave it a secure look.
Inside, Lucky was frenetic energy; he paced and chewed on his gum. I'd thought it peculiar that he chewed so much gum but he explained that he was trying to kick a four-pack-a-day smoking habit. Nonetheless, I didn't let his vigilance stop my cigar puffing.
Lighting up a Tampa Sweet, I took a deep drag and watched Lucky pat Zack on the back and laugh heartily. "Zack, you're a slick one! That was the best, the best damn deal I ever saw. Real slick, shot straight from the hip..." His voice halted at the sight of me leaning against the wood counter.
Then he resumed, "Well, like I was saying Zack, good thing you called me about that old gal."
He didn't fool me; the man was changing horses in mid-stream. Just like he was always doing every time I caught him unaware.
"Rufus, you ready? Got the cab all saddled up and waiting!" He smiled but it came off like a sly grin.
I was given the address and sent on my way amidst warnings and lots of prayers.
And, I needed the prayers! Weather conditions were worsening: now streets were becoming a solid glaze of ice, almost like sheets of glass. I drove the cab, luckily a heavy car, very cautiously. The cement blocks we'd placed in the trunk helped keep it on the road.
Soon, I had the old lady and her daughter in the backseat and was trucking up to Gentry. It wasn't a trip I'd want to remember; in spite of all my experience, there was something different about the sleet storms in the South as compared to the snowy streets of a Detroit winter. Ice was bad news anywhere, sheets of glaze -- more slippery, more dangerous and unpredictable.
But, I made it. The thirty miles never seemed so far; the old lady was grateful and cried when I helped her onto a stretcher at the hospital. Her daughter wanted to give me an extra cash bonus, but I wouldn't hear of it. The truth was, I felt embarrassed at the high fare Lucky told me to insist on. It was way too much!
All the way back, I kept fighting the worsening conditions, and had more than one near accident. Once I slipped off on the median and had to stop before attempting to right the car back on the highway. It was nerve wracking and for me, that was pretty damn bad! Before I got back to Canson, I wondered if I was really tough as nails?
But I did get back and what I saw when I arrived was enough to keep me awake for many long nights. I went right down Canson Boulevard, past Rexall Drug Store, Handy's Used Car Lot and then swerved over to park in front of Lucky's. The building was dark, not a light anywhere inside. It was peculiar, and I keyed in the mike, requesting a check with Zack. No response.
I sat there, watching sleet freeze on the windshield, and feeling creepy. Where would Zack and Lucky go? And what about Pete, the other driver? He was only in his twenties and a green-horn but I knew he was supposed to be helping out. His cab was gone.
I kept the cab running, to stay warm. I was undecided what to do. If I knew they didn't need me, I'd just change cars and go on home. But what if there was some kind of emergency? I switched off the motor, intending to go on home.
And then I saw her. Jenny was outside the pawn shop, hovering underneath the canopy that swayed out onto the sidewalk. She was shivering and huddling inside the doorway, her yellow raincoat too thin to keep her protected from the cold.
I was just about to jump from my cab, when I saw a shadowy form emerge from the pawn shop. There was no mistaking that jaunty, snappy walk; it was Lucky. He placed his arm possessively over timid Jenny's shoulder and pulled her to him. I thought I saw her flinch and had to restrain myself from leaping out of the cab to her rescue.
I sat in absolute dread, watching them in the dim glow of streetlights. I saw Lucky lift her chin and his face grew sinister, almost menacing. He said something and she cringed, her hands trembling as he grabbed them roughly. He talked down to her and I could fairly see her shaking with fear; it was all I could do to sit still. But that quirky sixth sense told me not to make a move.
Finally, Lucky went inside the pawn shop, and then came back out carrying a huge box. He grinned slyly at Jenny, ran a finger down her cheekbone and then jerked her close to him. They left, heading down toward the bookstore.
It was enough to fill me with a sickening sensation and I wanted to erase it. But I knew it was part of something bigger, something even more disgusting, and had no recourse but to keep my mouth shut and see what I could turn up later.
When they were out of sight, I slipped from my cab and into the Mazda. I really don't know how I got home on those damn slick streets, but I do remember thinking I'd not get any sleep that night...
For three days nothing, I mean nothing moved in Canson. I was confined, but so was the whole town! A sleet storm had immobilized the entire town, and most of northeast Alabama. The south wasn't equipped to handle this kind of weather.
Needless to say, being cramped in the house and stuck with Marge's nagging, added to an already increasing sense of mystery and intrigue with my newfound acquaintances, was less than pleasant. Stifling, depressing and boring was more the way it shaped up. Days, I paced and smoked my cigar, chewing on it as my mind leaped hurdles and jumped to the most absurd conclusions. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't grasp the connection between Jenny and sleaze-ball Lucky. I had come to look upon him as a snake in the grass. How else could I interpret his domineering behavior with Jenny that night? What kind of hell was he putting her through and why?
That was what didn't add up. Why would he be dominating, threatening her? He had to be a monster! And, as the long sleepless nights passed, I vowed to get to the bottom of this mess, one way or another.
When the sun came out on Saturday, I was more than relieved, I was ecstatic. Marge was even a bit glad; she had grown weary of our forced togetherness. She hated to admit it, but she loved her privacy for painting, for her world of solitude and art. But it didn't keep her from plugging away at insisting on "sharing" and getting my dander up any time she could!
When Lucky called at noon, asking that I change my hours to afternoons instead of mornings, I was totally agreeable. I found the streets safe and dry -- sunshine and climbing temperatures had ended the icy ordeal. At work, I got started on making appointed calls to the old folks, so they could re-stock groceries.
Near four o'clock, when twilight was tinting the horizon with a nice welcome sunset, I saw Jenny hurrying along the sidewalk in front of Rexall Drug Store. Since I was alone and without a customer, I swung my cab over and stopped alongside the curb, rolling down the window and hollering, "Hey Jenny...remember me? The clutz who ran into you?"
She stopped and hesitantly looked at me, her pale face even paler in the dimming afternoon sunset. She screwed up her courage and said, "Sure, I remember you. Rufus Strong, wasn't it?"
"Yeah, and since I'm not busy with a customer, how about a ride somewhere?" I had been planning this move for three days and hoped, no prayed, it would work.
She stared at me, her face a study in conflicting emotions. At last, she muttered, "Thanks, but I'm only going to the bookstore."
"That's okay, I'll give you a lift. I owe it to you, after that stunt the other day."
She laughed and I could tell she was considering it. Her smile was beatific when she looked at me again. "Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt anything; but it was my fault we ran into each other," she mumbled, slipping into the cab.
I was relieved she agreed to the ride, and chuckled. "Remember, let's not go through that act again!"
I had insisted she sit up front and sneaked a look at her tiny, thin body clad in the skimpy coat, with patched jeans showing above plastic white boots. But, I kept my face averted, trying to hide my curiosity.
"So Jenny," I said, rounding the corner and driving slowly past the pawn shop, "what you like to read?"
That struck her hard and she sort of leaned into the seat. "Um, I like um...I like..."
"Ever read Tom Sawyer? That's one of the best books of all time!" I watched her big brown eyes flutter shut and saw the nervous swipe of her small hand across the straight black langs.
"I...read Huckleberry Finn and loved it," she finally said.
We were parallel with the bookstore and I pulled into the driveway and parked. The old mansion loomed above us, gingerbread trim and Greek Revival-style columns fronting the vast facade. It was three stories, with verandahs and screened porches; a replica of ante-bellum southern mansions, it held some twenty odd rooms and had been decaying since 1892. There were lots of rumors about the place being haunted, but I was a skeptic...
"Thanks, for the ride...Mr. Strong."
"Call me Rufus, Jenny," I said persuasively.
"Okay, thanks Rufus. Maybe I'll see you around?" Her clear brown eyes held an elusive hope and I was touched once again...while frightened for her at the same time. "Oh, you'll be seeing me Jenny. Count on it."
She left the cab and hurried across the mushy lawn, turning to wave back to me from the stone steps. I waved and watched her enter the ornate doors that led to a small bookstore inside the first parlor.
When I headed home, I was satisfied my first plan of action was working. I had to win Jenny's trust and then maybe, just maybe I could find out what was at the bottom of Lucky's Cab Company. For by now, I was convinced it was more than just a cab company. There was something more lucrative in this business for Lucky and I damn sure intended to find out just what that something was!
I was prepared for action when Marge set off for church on Sunday morning. She had joined a nearby Baptist congregation; I was adamant about not accompanying her so she went alone. Not that I didn't believe in God, but I figured to each his own worship. I preferred solitude and silent prayer as opposed to open sharing -- the gushy emotionalism of southern Christians put me off.
Anyway, I was eager for Marge's departure and immediately got down my list of phone numbers. The first name on the list was Pete Chambers, Lucky's other cab driver. He was a weirdo; small, stout, almost midget-sized, he carried an indifferent air about him, had a chip on his shoulder. I had never been able to strike up a conversation with him, but now it was necessary to win his confidence.
I dialed the number and listened to three rings, then, "Hello." His voice was high-pitched, squeaky and fit his midget size to a tee. For a guy of only twenty, he probably had his share of problems getting gals though, and I felt an uncustomary flash of compassion.
"Hey Pete, what's cooking?" I faked a jovial, genial voice.
"Who is this," he squeaked, irritated.
"Say, it's me, Rufus. Thought if you had a few minutes, I'd like to ask you something."
There was an awkward pause, a sharp cough and then the squeaky voice, "Shoot, but make it quick. Gotta git to work."
"I was wondering, I mean...if you don't mind telling me, about the old McSwain mansion? Is it true that a mental patient runs the bookstore?"
Silence.
"I mean, I've heard so many damn rumors around this small town, and I thought maybe you had a handle on that place? Ever hear of any..."
He cut in fiercely, "I ain't one to tell a man his business, but you best keep your eyes shut and your ears closed. No man'll last long at Lucky's if he keeps prying around like you are."
"Whoa, who says I've been prying?"
"Lucky, that's who. And he told me to clam up, keep you out of our business. Cause it's our business, the cab company, the pawn shop and the..."
"Bookstore," I supplied quickly.
"None of your business. You just drive a cab and if you know what's good for you, you'll keep your nose out of trouble!"
He hung up with a deafening bang in my ear. Of all the gall, I thought, hanging up the receiver. Now I was really hot to learn what was behind Lucky's businesses!
Immediately, I phoned Jacob Walters, the postal clerk. It was no secret that he enjoyed a tidbit of gossip and couldn't resist spreading what he knew.
His weak voice answered, "Hello..."
"Jacob, this is Rufus. Got a question for you again. Remember when we were discussing Jenny the other night? Well, I heard a wild rumor about the old MacSwain mansion and since you seem to know all about this town..." I was counting on flattery to bring forth information. It was a good move...
"Sure Rufus, that old place is creepy, for more than one reason. You know about Willyboy?"
"No, don't believe so. He's not the mental..."
"Yeah, too bad, isn't it? He was put in the crazy house at Tuscaloosa way back when his folks couldn't handle him, at age ten. Then, his sister, when she got to be a widow, took him out and kept him there in the mansion. Just the two of them running that used bookstore. Not a soul in Canson that don't know of those two."
"You mean she still lives there with him?"
"Nah, she died about six months ago. Come to think of it, her funeral was right about the time Lucky moved into town and opened his cab company and pawn shop, nextdoor to the mansion. Mighty fine service, that cab is, but damn high priced!"
"My thoughts exactly. But, back to the uh, Willyboy. What happened to him?"
"Danndest thing. The poor soul would've had to go back to the crazy house, but for Lucky. He set him up with a young guy to look out for him and run the bookstore. Very kind of him, it was. Course, hardly anybody ever sees Willyboy, he's strange, a loner."
I got the picture, but clear! "Thanks Jacob. You're turning into a real friend and wealth of information."
"Anytime Rufus. I know this place like the back of my hand. But, I hate to tell you, it's kinda funny here lately. Something's not right, but it's hard to put my finger on the problem, if you know what I mean?"
"I know, believe me, I know. Keep this under your hat, Jacob, but that's what's got me asking questions. Something is out of pocket in this town."
Both of us fell silent, lost in our thoughts of the foreboding atmosphere we felt on the streets of Canson. Finally, I said, "Well, thanks pal. I may call on you again."
"Anytime...proud to help you."
It was a long Sunday afternoon. Marge came home, fixed up a mouth-watering dinner and we gorged. My weight was climbing and I knew I should cut back on the fatty foods, but what the hell? I deserved some pleasure in life.
Marge nagged off and on, but finally went to work in her studio at the front of the house. Since I was sequestered in the den with the TV blasting out a boxing match, she gave me some privacy. I wasn't interested in the boxing; it was usually my most avid spectator sport, but not today!
I ran my thoughts back like a film and tried to pin-point exactly what the connection was between Lucky and Jenny. And what of Willyboy and rumors of a liquor operation in the bookstore/mansion front? What was that tenuous thread I couldn't quite grasp and what was the piece of the puzzle I couldn't place?
The fact that all three establishments fronted Magnolia Street was probably significant. It was all right there together, and whatever the hell was going on behind the scenes couldn't be good. And it was more than likely very lucrative.
What bothered me the worst was Jenny. What was her role in this mess? Was it willing or forced? From the look on Lucky's face that night, I had to guess it was forced participation on her part. And that made my blood boil. If I ever found out that sleaze-ball hurt her physically... I...
My fists had clenched and I was tensed-up. I squashed out my cigar and stood, pacing around the small den. I found the boxing a nuisance, and snapped off the TV. Silence was more conducive to thinking and I had some serious thinking to do. Somehow, I had to come up with a plan of action...
And I did. The only thing that aggravated me was Marge's insistence that we "share" later that night. Shit, how could I listen to her griping when I was embroiled in this bad situation?
The next afternoon I had a chance to put my plan into gear. I saw Jenny again on the sidewalk, heading to the bookstore. I stopped her and offered the ride, which she hesitantly accepted. But instead of dropping her off, I talked her into letting me wait and carry her home.
Imagine my surprise when she emerged from the mansion with a huge paper sack in her arms!
Back in the cab, she was nervous and quiet. I drove the six blocks out of town, swung onto a two-lane blacktop and headed rapidly to her home. I asked casually, "Lot's of books there, huh?"
Her pale face flushed. "Uh...yes."
"You must really like to read! Who all did you get...authors, I mean?" I glanced sideways at her and saw a grimace on her pinched face. It went straight to my heart; she was no good at lying.
"I.. .got...uh...some new ones."
"Jenny, you know I'm your friend. I want you to try and trust me. Whatever is in that sack can be a secret just between you and me." I was slowing, seeing her small frame home up ahead.
"Rufus, you're awful nice and I...uh...like you." She wouldn't look at me, but averted her face and began to twist her hands nervously.
"Jenny, I can keep a secret." I pulled into the rutted dirt driveway and stared at her home. It was sort of rundown and unkempt. The brown paint was peeling, window shutters were loose and the wide front porch was sagging. It shocked me; I'd thought her Dad the responsible type.
"Rufus, I gotta go now. Daddy is waiting."
"Wait," I placed my hand on her slender arm. "I want you to always remember that I'm your friend." I took a folded piece of paper from my pocket. "Here, this is my phone number and if you ever need me, just call and I'll come." I placed it in her small damp hand and closed her fingers over it. "You take care, Jenny." I smiled broadly, my best friendly smile.
Her clear brown eyes lit with warm feeling. "Thanks, Rufus." She hopped from the cab and rushed up the sidewalk to her home. At the porch, she turned and waved back to me.
I waved and then backed out of the driveway. She was such a cute, fresh-faced girl, wholesome, and deserved to be happy, not involved with that ferret Lucky! I was having trouble controlling my emotions... which was damn hard to admit to myself!
Things progressed pretty much along the same lines for the following week. By Sunday, I was still stumped. There was no figuring the angle. Of course, between Marge's nagging, Jenny's lying and Lucky's sneakiness, I was not the least at peace. And retirement was supposed to be peaceful. Only two weeks past, I'd been bored to death!
Now, I was embroiled in some kind of peculiar melodrama that had an unpredictable plot! I had noticed that Lucky was growing ever watchful of me, so I guessed that Pete had clued him in on my telephone call. Still, Lucky didn't dare fire me and risk my going to the authorities with my suspicions. He probably figured to keep me around and let his keen eye pick up on my actions, or soothe my ruffled feathers by acting friendly. As for my snooping, I'd let it simmer for now. Somehow, that sixth sense was working and told me not to rock the boat just yet.
Monday morning, I did drop in on Jacob at the post office. He told me something very interesting: Willyboy was seen on the streets the night before. This was news to me, and I decided to check it out.
When I was between customers, I drove over to the mansion and went into the bookstore. There was the ugliest guy I'd ever seen at the desk. He was scrawny, pimple-faced and downright nasty tempered. When I said I wanted to browse around, he acted offended and finally his dogging my steps made me uneasy, and I left without seeing the elusive Willyboy. Maybe he was a ghost? The tales in town had him everything but human!
There was definitely something going on in that bookstore...and it wasn't the selling of fiction, but something based on factual dollars and cents. Which left me to conclude that little Jenny was buying liquor from the place, otherwise why the large paper sacks that bulged suspiciously? And who was it for? And why? Not her, for sure. But then who? Could she be helping Lucky in some kind of bootleg operation? Did her Dad know of it? It just didn't all come out right! I couldn't feature Jenny as a bad kid!
Frustration was my constant companion as I made my cab calls in Canson.
Wednesday night was a rip-roaring event! Marge got on the warpath and there was no shutting her up. She demanded, not asked, me to "share." When I lost my temper, exasperated from the nagging and messy situation I'd gotten into, she began to cry and before the night was over, she had moved into our spare bedroom. It was an insult to my manhood for her to leave my bed; but, I refused to get down on my knees and beg her to return. Shit, couldn't she ever let up with this sharing bit? I just wasn't made to vent my private feelings.... What was worse, she knew that something was bothering me, and accused me of shutting her out. But if I had mentioned my suspicions to her about the bookstore and Lucky, she would have pitched a fit for me to quit. No way was I doing that!
By Thursday though, this thing with Jenny was getting to me, where it hurt -- in my heart. Every day without fail, I gave her a lift to the bookstore, and then home. I was sure Lucky was onto my actions, but what the hell? I just hoped he didn't start up with me!
Jenny was growing puny, her once-thin frame now too skinny. Her clear brown eyes had a shadowed veil that haunted her tense face. She was living in a hell of some kind and seeing her, being unable to help, was killing me.
Christ, I was shocked at how fond I'd become of her -- even attached. Each day I eagerly looked forward to her trip and tried my best to cheer her up, but it wasn't easy.
I was beginning to see that Marge and I had missed a lot by not having kids...and grandkids.
Friday was to be my showdown with Jenny. I had lain awake all Thursday night, thinking of what should be done. I had to confront her; I had to force her to tell me what was happening at the bookstore.
So, when I picked her up on Friday afternoon, I was patient, kind and courteous, as always. But, when we swung onto the two-lane blacktop, I drove only a short distance and then took an alternate dirt road. It was bumpy, riddled with pot holes and we jostled along.
She exclaimed, "Where're you going? Daddy is expecting me!"
I saw right away that her anxiety was tied to her Dad and said, "Surely he won't care if you're just a few minutes late?"
"Rufus, he's waiting and..."
I swerved to the roadside and looked her straight in the eyes. "What? He's waiting and if you don't show, he'll what?"
Her lips trembled and she swiped at her coal black straight bangs. "I didn't mean that..."
"Oh yes you did." I hated to upset her, but it was now or never. She wasn't going to confide in me and she obviously needed help. I jerked the paper sack away from her and she screamed, "No, don't! Rufus, that's my Daddy's!"
I opened the sack ruthlessly and wasn't surprised to see two fifths of vodka.
"Daddy needs it..." Her voice cracked and she began to whimper, "Please, give it back. He's waiting..."
"Jenny, Jenny," I chided, "is this what you've been carrying home to your Dad every day? Child, can't you see he needs help if he drinks this way?"
Big tear drops were rolling down her cheeks now and she sniffled, "But, but...he needs it. He's sick, and he has to have it."
I lifted her chin and looked into her teary brown eyes. "Jenny, he needs help, but not with this stuff. I know you think you're doing the right thing..."
"But you don't understand. He's been sick ever since Mama died and he needs it to get through..." She sniffled and wiped the tears off her face. "See, my Granny will take me away if she finds out that Daddy is...is..."
"An alcoholic?" I prompted, gently.
"He's not a drunk! But he is sick. Before, when Mama was alive, it wasn't this way. We were a family and, and..."
"I'm sure he loves you Jenny...but, you've got to be strong for him. He needs help...professional help. Like AA."
"No! My Granny will take me away if she finds out that Daddy is..."
"Look, the only way your Daddy will ever get better is if you insist he get help." I didn't want to lecture to her, but on the other hand, she needed to hear the right course of action. The poor kid, I thought, looking at her drawn, pale face. She'd been hiding her Dad's alcoholism too long already!
"I can't...can't..." She was sputtering and shaking with fear. I put my arm across her frail shoulders. "Yes, you can. I'll help you...and your Granny will never know a thing."
She lifted her eyes to me and I was touched by her trusting, hopeful face. "Would you, really?"
"Of course. I'll go with you right now and talk to your Dad."
She shuddered. "What about Lucky? He'll be awful mad at me..."
I couldn't hide my grimace. "Just what is his part in this?"
"Um, he was the one who helped me get liquor for Daddy to begin with...way back before his cab company and pawn shop, when Willyboy ran the bookstore with his sister."
"You mean he arranged for you to get the liquor through him?" I was restraining my temper, although my face felt hot as fire.
"Yes, and he told me if I didn't do what he said, he'd tell my Granny and then...well, I'd have to go live with her." She looked at me sadly. "I just couldn't leave my Daddy, he needs me."
"Sure he does sweetheart," I agreed, starting the cab. "Let's go have that talk with him now and see what we can do."
She smiled and it was like the sun coming out on a cloudy day. I vowed to help her and once that was done, Lucky Joe Driscol was going to be a long gone fox!
Over the weekend, I managed to reconcile with Marge, at least temporarily, and we visited with Jenny and her Dad. He was a quiet, withdrawn man, wracked with sorrow and empty heartbreak. The drinking had become his only tool for survival; he didn't even hold a job any longer. In fact, I later learned that Lucky was supplying Jenny with money, so that was their only source of income. I figured Lucky was angling to "own" Jenny before long and no telling what plans he had for her. Probably prostitution -- the thought turned my stomach.
By Monday, we had successfully talked Jenny's Dad, Craig, into attending AA meetings in Gentry. I volunteered to drive them back and forth; Jenny could attend meetings for families of alcoholics.
Then, by Tuesday, I had only one score to settle. Via Jacob and Zack, I had learned of the loose thread and how it wove through the fabric of Lucky's cab company, pawn shop and bookstore. He was fencing stolen goods at the pawn shop from his former thug associates; Lucky had been in the state penitentiary, where he'd heard of Willyboy through an institutional grapevine.
Lucky saw an easy spot and moved into action through Willyboy's widowed sister. He'd wooed and won her, then she died and he inherited the mansion. From there, it was a small step to owning the cab company, pawn shop and who knows, without me, perhaps someday the whole of Canson? His bootleg whiskey, stolen merchandise and over-priced cab service (which also was used by night to haul in liquor and stolen goods) were making Joe Driscol a rich fox.
I can't claim it was easy to piece together these events, but I did it; I had to for Jenny's sake. And I went to the Sheriff's Department in Gentry --those boys knew how to take care of slick Lucky Joe Driscol. He is now an UNlucky resident of the state penitentiary again.
And me, where am I and how am I? Well, I'm the proud owner of my own taxi cab service here in Canson. It is a source of great pride to me; I love helping the elderly and offer them discounted rates.
Sometimes, I look back on that mess and I have to smile. Why? Well, because when it was all said and done, I had made the most important discovery of my life. And you know what? Marge was the happiest of all because she was right: I did need to "share" my feelings and through Jenny, I learned how not to be afraid to show friendly concern, caring and warmth. A man does need to express his feelings, and I was long overdue on that score.
But I guess the happiest moment came when I told Marge that I had held back sharing my busted dream all these years. See, I'd always wanted to be a heavyweight boxer, but that dream was busted when I lost an amateur match in my youth. I'd never told her...but now she knows and I have grown wiser by allowing myself to share, completely.
A happy ending? You bet -- Jenny and her Dad are happy, Marge and I are happy and everything is coming up roses in Canson, Alabama!