Wanderer Come Home

By Dale Tucker

Wanderer Come Home follows the turning points in the lives of two men whose paths, it would seem, should never cross. Axel Browne's path has been one of hardship and disappointment because for fifty years he has been a homeless wanderer who has spent the entirety of his adult life chasing a mirage. Now, just as he begins to accept that he will never find her, the evidence for which he has searched a lifetime suddenly appears. But is it enough to lead him to the dream? And at age seventy is there still time to pursue it?
Hunter Carr's path, on the other hand, has been one of meteoric success which has propelled him to the apex of his professional career as a Mergers and Acquisitions broker. As our story opens, Hunter lands the biggest deal of his career and celebrates with his wife and circle of friends. But on this very night, his life takes an unexpected and traumatic turn when he crosses paths with a ghostly figure on a bridge. It would not be the last time, either, since they would meet again on another night as Hunter's future hangs in the balance.
Wanderer Come Home transports us from the quaint town of Waterford all the way to the fantastic edge of the Cosmos to show us who we really are and the beauty of recognizing what it means.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale Tucker
• Release date: Aug 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9780463016633

Dale Tucker

Dale Tucker, a native of California, spent much of his early childhood in Palo Alto and Fresno before his family relocated to north-central Idaho in the late 1960s.Over the next four decades, he would graduate high school, raise a family, complete a bachelor's degree in English, and explore several career paths, including music store manager, church minister, abstract painter, and museum curator.Dale Tucker was also a college instructor and taught English as a Second Language and Adult Basic Education courses at a community college in Clarkston, Washington. He also worked in a bakery, cooked for a restaurant, pulled coffee as a barista, exhibited his fine art paintings in galleries regionally, and, for several years, organized a popular coffeehouse lecture series known as the Latte Talks.2006 marked the re-focus of Tucker's artistic energies as he transitioned from abstract painting to literary fiction. Themes of interest to Tucker, both in painting and in writing, have been the nature of family, poverty, simplicity of living, and spirituality.Dale Tucker is now retired and spends much of his time writing, cooking, and Nature-watching at his cottage in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina. He shares a simple and happy life with his soulmate, Kathryn, and their Manx cat, Dill.

Book preview

626 Meridian

Chapter 1

Saturday 24 May 1986

Here we are, ma’am, said the driver into the rearview mirror, 626 Meridian.

Sir, are you sure this is Meridian Avenue? she asked.

Yes, ma’am, this is Meridian; ain’t no other Meridian in Mackinaw Ferry.

Can you wait five minutes, please? I'd like to get out.

Yes, ma’am, ain't no hurry today; it's Saturday.

She glanced forward and behind to make sure there were no cars approaching then tentatively stepped from the taxi into the street.

She was a young woman in her early twenties and wore a denim pintuck jumper. She was pretty and had lovely wavy hair, amber colored, and freckles to match that spangled the bridge of her nose. But her expression was worried as she stepped from the vehicle and gazed across the yard at the house numbered 626. How shabby everything is, she thought, not only our house but the whole neighborhood. I remember it neater but I guess this must be it she concluded.

The cabbie rolled down his window to let in cool air. The young woman shut her door and walked past him to the front of the car where she abruptly stopped near the left headlight, as if almost stepping on something. From where she stood, she searched the asphalt in front of her but saw nothing except a web of cracks. Then she surveyed the driveway and street all around as if looking for something.

Probably about where I’m standing she thought. Right here! This is where the car would have hit me and I landed probably... there . And my pretty new bicycle would have ended up here under the car. She made a mental note of each place on the street. The cabbie began whistling to politely remind her he was waiting.

But not until she was satisfied did the girl move from where she stood and make her way to the front gate of the house. She entered the gate and walked confidently up the pocked concrete path, through the unkempt yard, to the porch. The porch sagged with age where it mounted to the door.

The girl reached for the doorbell button but then hesitated and withdrew her hand, bringing the fingertips of her hand, instead, to her lips. Might Mama or Papa answer? she wondered. That thought made her knees wobbly. What would I say to them if they did? She turned and glanced back at the cabbie who seemed lost in his own world. He only stared ahead and whistled while tapping his round fingers on the steering wheel.

You’ve come too far and waited too long to chicken out now she admonished herself. So with that, she turned again to the doorbell and rang it and held her breath. She heard the bell ring inside the house and heavy footsteps approach.

A short, round woman opened the door. She was, perhaps, in her fifties and a little out of breath. She gazed blankly at the young woman through the closed screen door. Then brushing a strand of dull hair upward, off her forehead, she exhaled before speaking. The girl smiled nervously.

Yes, can I help you? said the woman in a high pitched voice.

The girl felt relief because the woman behind the screen door was not her mother.

Yes, good morning, ma’am, said the visitor.

Hi, responded the woman flatly.

I’m looking for someone, the girl began. Actually, I’m looking for a family who used to live at this address.

This address? said the woman incredulously.

Yes, ma’am, answered the girl.

I don’t see how that can be, said the woman, my husband and I have owned this house since 1970. And I can't even remember who owned it before us. Bob, my husband, might but he’s at work and doesn’t get off till five. I’m sorry, young lady, but I don’t see how I can help you.

The woman behind the screen began easing the door closed on her visitor.

Ma’am I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, blurted the girl, "but I’ve come an awfully long way—all the way from Montana, actually. And it’s my family I’m looking for. I used to live here."

Oh! said the woman, I didn’t know. Surprised by this news, the older woman drew the door open again. But I still don’t see how I can help you, dear, she said.

I promise to only take a minute of your time but I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask you. And even if you don’t know the answers, if you could try to answer them, I’d be terribly grateful.

Well, okay then, said the woman hesitantly, I suppose I can try.

The older woman opened the screen and asked the young woman if she wanted to come in.

Oh, no thank you. I won’t be a minute, replied the girl, and the cab’s waiting on me.

All right then but I don’t remember much.

Thank you. I appreciate this, said the girl.

Finally having gained permission to interview the woman of 626, the young woman inhaled deeply and proceeded with her first question:

Ma’am, the folks who owned this house before you, was their name Larsen by any chance?

Larsen—hmm, let me think. Well, we bought it from a woman; I do remember that. She didn’t have a husband as I recall. But the name Larsen doesn’t ring any bells. If Bob were here, he might know.

It wasn’t a couple with a daughter who lived here before you? I guess the daughter would have been close to the same age as I am now?

Now that you mention it, I think there was a girl but no husband. That I know for sure because I thought it odd: a woman owning a house by herself.

The young woman looked puzzled but continued her inquiry.

So after the owner—the single woman—sold you the house, do you know where she and the daughter went, where they might have moved?

Nope, I haven’t a clue. The lady was gone before Bob and I moved in. I couldn’t tell you where, neither. She was in a hurry, though. She had been asking twenty-one thousand for the place but needed cash she said. We offered her eighteen cash money and she took it without batting an eye. But as soon as she got the check she was gone.

Had she possibly only owned the house a short time? Like, say, less than three or four years?

Um, well, let me think. No, I’m sorry; that I couldn’t tell you. But say, why don’t you describe the woman you’re thinking of, then I can tell you if she’s the one I remember. Was she your mother?

Yes, ma’am, she was, said the young woman.

So the young woman described her mother as best she could to the woman holding open the screen and the type of clothes her mother usually wore and a couple of mannerisms, characteristic of her.

Well, you know, said the woman, "I do believe that was her. You described the woman I remember to a T, though I only met her a couple of times. I do wish I could tell you more. Oh now wait a minute— I do remember her saying she had two daughters but that one was away, though I only saw the one daughter and saw her just once. But I remember her mentioning a second daughter. Are you the daughter who was away?"

Yes, ma’am, said the young woman, I was away.

If you don’t mind me asking, where were you? Sent away to boarding school or something? There was a hint of scandal implied in the question.

Actually, I was dead, said the young woman bluntly.

Dead? repeated the woman, dismayed.

Yes, I was away in heaven but I’ve since been reincarnated. And now I’m trying to locate my family from my previous life.

Well, I—I just don’t know what to say to that, stammered the woman, but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. Her face had gone white and her ears red and the corners of her mouth had curled downward and now her eyes bulged with astonishment or anger.

The young visitor tried to thank the woman of 626 Meridian for her time before the door closed in her face. But then the young woman—apparently used to such indignities—shrugged, turned around, and walked back to the waiting cab.

To where, ma’am? asked the driver.

To the Community Church on Garland Avenue, please, if it’s still there.

Yes, ma’am, no problem, said the driver.

The Errand

Chapter 2

The sun climbed above the yellow poplars at the edge of the garden and began warming the back of Miss Plackie’s house while carpenter bees burrowed holes in the eves of her back porch and floated lazily like soap-bubbles around the hollyhocks. The grass in her backyard had gotten tall, especially at the corners of things. It had been an unusually wet May so the weeds as well as the vegetable plants in the garden had all grown quickly and were taller than they normally would be that time of year.

Miss Plackie’s house rested on two slanted acres of land which lay about a mile and a half south of Waterford village and about two miles southwest of the Old River. The architecture of her house was typical of those found in the country. It was an old house now but when it was young someone had planted trees all around it which, after several decades, had dwarfed the dwelling and made it appear squat. But now the brilliant and varied hues of that spring morning and the clear azure sky lent the place a bucolic peace and made it seem less shabby.

The screen door spring croaked as Miss Plackie pushed the back porch door open. In front of her were four wooden steps leading down to the grass and a drop in elevation of three feet, certainly enough to break an ankle. The steps lacked handrails. She waited a minute, holding onto the screen porch doorframe, and looked down the steps then frowned. She was trying to judge the distance between the threshold where she stood and the first step in front of her so to negotiate the whole series of steps successfully in her slippers. And she was not entirely steady.

Miss Plackie was a middle aged woman in her fifties. She could still appear youthful at a distance so that once in a while those who had known her in her youth caught glimpses of the beautiful girl she had once been as she gestured with her hands or turned her head a certain way. Her hair was full and wavy and fell a few inches below her shoulders. But these days she seldom brushed it and her once coffee colored mane had become salted with gray. With age her frame had lost much of its feminine nuance and had grown too angular, now resembling that of a slender boy.

She wore a sheer, pale-blue nightgown. The gown was froufrou on account of the fake ostrich feathers which edged its cuffs, neckline, and hem. For footwear she donned clear acrylic glass slippers the heels of which gleamed with gold-foil.

All at once as if to say, to hell with it, Miss Plackie clopped down all four stairs in a way that looked like a skier descending a bumpy slalom. But she made it safely to the bottom and onto the uneven grass without disaster where she then turned and angled towards the toolshed, trotting briskly across the yard.

The shed was a relatively large one as sheds go, eight feet by twelve or so, having a wide door at the front and a small square window which let in light at the back.

At the shed, Miss Plackie began pounding the door with her fist which in itself could have startled Lazarus to his feet. But anyone else might have done the same because the person inside could be heard snoring like a thunderstorm.

Axel! Axel! If you’re in there I’d like to see you for a minute. Axel, are you there? she hollered while still hammering the door with her fist.

The snoring abruptly stopped.

Hold your horses, for Pete’s sake. I’m coming, said Axel gruffly. Miss Plackie ceased knocking and stepped back a foot or two from the shed door.

Okay, she said meekly.

In the backyard a large sycamore tree overhung the toolshed where Axel napped in the mornings. Miss Plackie had given Axel permission to live in her toolshed since she seldom needed tools and, in fact, apart from the rusty hammer in her utility drawer, did not know if she owned any. It was late morning but Axel had only gotten four hours of sleep since breakfast. As usual, he and Dixie had been out all night fishing. Dixie, too, had found her bed under the card table behind the shed and had been dreaming dog dreams which caused her legs and ears to twitch as she slept.

Axel coughed twice. Something hard fell inside the shed, hit the floor, and rolled a little.

For crying out loud, Miss Sharon, it’s only eleven o’clock, said Axel.

Dixie came running around the corner of the toolshed wagging her tail.

If you have time I need your help with something—in the house, Miss Plackie explained.

She leaned forward listening for an answer but all she could hear were Axel’s heavy feet on the plywood floor as he rose from his cot and approached the door. He sometimes stretched himself on his cot and fell asleep with his boots on; this was one of those times. Miss Plackie stepped back a bit more and straightened herself.

The door of the shed swung open, wide enough for Axel to stoop and step down from the edge of the doorway. Stooping through doorways was a habit learned by a man who had knocked his head innumerable times entering or exiting tight places. And although Axel was only a little taller than the average man he had knocked his head plenty over the years.

Miss Plackie had always been impressed with the deliberation with which Axel moved. She waited as he, without speaking yet, stepped down and carefully closed the shed door before turning to face her. Then he smiled a little to mask the irritation he felt for having his rest broken. And seeing him smile, Miss Plackie bought the courteous deception and smiled back warmly and fluttered her eyelashes to express her gratitude to Axel for being as understanding of her needs as he was. Other men, she knew, would have stormed out of the shed and shouted at her. But Axel Browne was a gentleman.

Axel had a flat, Nordic face over which it appeared the skin had been drawn more tightly than it ought to be, making it difficult for him to frown. He stood erect at two and a half inches over six feet and, now, in his seventy-first year of life, his blond hair had become streaked with white, causing the blond that was left to appear slightly yellow. He wore his hair cropped close around the ears and back of skull but allowed it to grow like wheat on top, a sheaf of which flopped over onto his broad forehead. He was a large man but not heavy. He was sinewy like someone who chopped a cord of wood every day. Broad in the shoulders but flat in the rump, though his thighs and calves were still well-developed and strong.

He wore an old softball team shirt he had picked up somewhere. It had raglan sleeves that were once red but now faded to almost pink. The body of the shirt was white—though stained here and there—with TIGERS emblazoned across the chest and the numeral 55 printed in red plastic ink, which had cracked and flaked but was still visible, on the back. The shirt sagged on Axel, down below the pockets of his pants. He wore a pair of drab green shorts, made of denim, which ended just above his knobby knees. The shorts had extra pockets on the fronts and sides and Axel made good use of them. He often stuffed them with fishing gear and sandwiches. His shoes were a pair of hiking boots, battered but real leather, whose arch-supports were still good. Axel valued good arch-support.

Well, now, I understand you have an emergency of some sort which requires my intervention, said Axel a bit condescendingly.

Oh now, Axel, save the preaching for the pulpit; it’s not polite to talk down to a lady, responded Miss Plackie.

He rolled his eyes.

What is it you need, Miss Sharon?

Well, it’s in the kitchen. I’ll show you, she replied then turned and headed in that direction.

Dixie, who had stood by listening to this exchange, appeared to understand at least the end of the conversation. She barked once then ran across the yard to the porch steps where she waited for Miss Plackie and Axel to catch up.

Leaning on Axel’s arm Miss Plackie climbed the wooden steps and entered the screened back porch. Axel and Dixie followed. From there they passed through the mudroom and into the kitchen. It was an old kitchen with a high ceiling and high cupboards, the top shelves of which required either a tall man and a chair or a woman with a ladder to reach them. The kitchen was cool and orderly. But Dixie began scouting the floor anyway for edible morsels, as was her habit.

One of Miss Plackie’s straight-back dining room chairs had been pulled from its usual place at the table and pushed up against the base-cupboard beside the refrigerator. The upper cupboard door stood open.

I can’t find my molasses, said Miss Plackie, exasperated. I know I have a whole bottle of it somewhere but I can’t, for the life of me, find it. I think it has to be up there.

She pointed to the top shelf of the open cupboard.

How would it get up there? said Axel incredulously.

I don’t know. Would you please just look for me? I want to bake a batch of gingerbread cookies today.

Axel grumbled something about couldn’t have waited till later under his breath as he climbed atop the chair.

And since you’re there, said Miss Plackie, if you see my cough syrup or anything else, you might as well hand that down, too.

No, there’s nothing here. No molasses or cough syrup, answered Axel.

But what’s that?

What’s what? said Axel.

That! I see the top of a bottle up there, towards the back. What’s that?

Oh, that’s just an empty bottle of some kind, he said.

He reached back and pulled down a tallish glass bottle and shook it.

Looks like it was a bottle of port at one time. There’s a brown stain in the bottom. Here you want it?

Axel handed it down.

Oh, thank-you, said Miss Plackie, disappointed. I’ll throw it away.

You want me to check the other cupboards while I’m here?

No, I’m sure I’ll find it.

Axel climbed down, brushed the dust from the seat of the creaky chair, and placed it back at the table in the dinning room.

Well, is that all you needed, Miss Sharon? asked Axel.

Miss Plackie seemed lost in thought as she anxiously wrung the neck of the empty bottle she held.

Yes, I suppose so, she said softly.

Axel exhaled audibly because he recognized Miss Plackie’s dilemma.

You need me to go to the ABC store for you, Miss Sharon? he asked. His tone had softened into that of a confidante.

Oh, could you? It would be a very chivalrous gesture if you did. Are you sure it wouldn’t be a great inconvenience?

She stood before him anxiously, shoulders drawn, eyes pleading, hair mussed. She reminded him of a small girl in a princess costume. Axel felt a pang of pity course up from his stomach through his chest. He, better than anyone, understood Miss Plackie’s addiction and the embarrassment she must have felt having to rely on someone else to feed it.

Dixie and I don’t have anything else pressing. We’d be happy to go, said Axel.

When did you think you would—you know—go? she asked.

I’ll leave straight from here if that suits you.

Why, bless your heart, said Miss Plackie. That would suit me fine. Thank you so much. Let me find my glasses and pocketbook.

You’re welcome; never a problem, said Axel.

Miss Plackie scurried to the back of the house. Axel assumed she was headed to her bedroom since sometimes he also heard a drawer being opened and closed when she went to fetch her pocketbook.

I just remembered, there’s a new guy at the ABC who doesn’t like me, Axel called in the direction of the bedroom. I hope he doesn’t cause a problem like last time. Miss Plackie didn’t answer.

A minute later she reappeared in the dinning room clutching a blue, fabric purse which, in shape, looked like an Idaho potato. It was stuffed full of bills, coins, and coupons which she clipped and collected religiously but never redeemed.

I’m sorry, what were you saying? I couldn’t hear you very well back there, she said as she returned.

I was saying that I’m worried about the new trainee at the store. Last time I was in, he said I had to have ID or he wouldn’t sell me any liquor. But luckily Gary intervened and let me buy what I needed. But if that guy’s working by himself today, he could give me trouble.

"Why don’t you show him my driver’s license?" offered Miss Plackie.

Thank you Miss Sharon but I don’t think that will help.

Oh, don’t worry about it, said Miss Plackie, I’ll just write a note like we used to. Show it to Terry. He’ll take care of it.

But Terry died two years ago, Miss Sharon.

Two years?

Yes, ma’am, said Axel. And he retired two years before that.

Oh, my! Time gets away, doesn’t it. I’m sorry to hear about Terry: he was a kind fellow. Well, then give the note to the new manager; I’m sure Terry told him about our arrangement before he, you know, moved on.

Miss Plackie leaned over the dinning room table and began, with both hands, shuffling objects that cluttered it—books, coupon flyers, scissors, a coffee mug holding pens, doilies, two thin bud vases, half filled with cloudy water, a scattering of wilted rose petals, her prized antique flower bowl, her favorite teacup and saucer, a pile of unopened statements and junk mail, and a stack of outdated magazines (that she still intended to read)—until she found the notepad she was searching for. She tore a sheet from it and began scratching a note in her hurried hand. She signed it at the bottom and held it out for Axel to take.

I feel like a damned schoolboy, he said as he accepted the note and stuffed it into a pocket.

Miss Plackie then tore another slip from the notepad and in two-seconds completed a shopping list.

Now, here’s a list of what I need, Axel; there's something on it for you, too, as a thank-you. And— She opened her blue potato purse and began digging. And here’s cash. Is forty enough?

It’s too much.

Just bring me the change; that’ll be fine. So are we set?

Well, yes, I suppose we are, said Axel.

Axel gave Dixie, who had been cooling her belly on the kitchen linoleum, a reedy whistle. At the signal, Dixie jumped to her feet and ran to the mudroom door where she waited, smiling and wagging her tail, for Axel to let her out. Dixie always enjoyed visiting Miss Plackie’s house but she enjoyed even more being in her own element—outdoors.

Miss Plackie saw Axel and Dixie out through the mudroom and screened porch and into the backyard. She stood in her slippers and gown in the tall grass, shading her eyes with one hand and watching as Axel and Dixie prepared to leave. Axel stopped by the shed long enough to grab his backpack and hat. He thought about taking his fishing pole and tackle box too but, at the last, decided against it since he knew Miss Plackie would be waiting anxiously at home until his return. He whistled again and Dixie took off running towards the path that led to the road that led to the railroad tracks that led to town. It was a pretty good hike into town from Miss Plackie’s place and the sun, by then, was high and bore down with full force.

Axel set out at a good pace, following Dixie. He bounced his pack once to even its weight on his shoulders then turned and, without breaking stride, gave Miss Plackie a quick salute goodbye before turning back to the path ahead of him. She smiled and waved weakly at his back.

Oh darn! she said to herself, I should’ve had him pick up a bottle of molasses while he was out.

Dixie pressed her nose against the glass, looking through the front door of the liquor store and twitched her ears nervously as she waited for Axel’s return. Axel stood at the checkout counter with a piqued expression on his face, watching the clerk study Miss Plackie’s note. On the counter between the clerk and Axel stood three bottles: two tall ones containing gin and vodka and a short one filled with a walnut-brown bourbon.

How long does it take to read a stupid note? thought Axel; This guy’s going to be an asshole again, I can tell.

The clerk was a short, paunchy man who wore black trousers, penny loafers, and a Hawaiian-print shirt that was splattered with parrots and palm trees but was mostly orange in color. He looked somewhere between thirty and thirty-five years of age. He had a round head and wavy, dark hair but a U-shaped patch of baldness exposed the shiny surface of the top of his pate. His features in general were rounded; his eyebrows dark and bushy; his eyes bulbous and suspicious and somewhere in color between brown and black. And overall he wore an air of cocky superiority about him.

Reading Miss Plackie’s note he smirked as if reading a joke. Your typical Barney Fife, thought Axel contemptuously, as he eyed the man from the other side of the counter. Then the clerk’s smirk faded and his brows knitted as his eyes shifted quickly back and forth, reading the note again. Eventually the inquisitor rolled his eyes upward and focused them probingly on Axel. Axel countered with his most charming fake grin, the kind a schoolboy gives his teacher when he hands her a note from home, asking to be released from class after lunch.

I’ll need to see some ID, said the clerk flatly, then returned Axel’s fake grin with his own brand which was more toothy and more sinister.

Seriously? said Axel dismayed. You’re going to card me? How old do I look to you? Seventeen?

Don’t get smart with me, warned the clerk. I’m an agent of the State.

The state of what? demanded Axel.

Let me tell you something, mister: I’m the one who says who does or doesn’t do business in this store! And right now you’re about two seconds from getting your derrière eighty-sixed—permanently. I’m not playing, man.

"No! I’m going to tell you something, Mr. Bigmouth! said Axel, raising his voice and jabbing his big finger in the clerk’s face. I was crawling on my belly in the slime and mud and dodging bullets at night in the snake-infested jungles of Southeast Asia defending Liberty against the Vietcong before your daddy’s balls dropped! And if it wasn’t for men like me doing the heavy lifting in this country, shit-heads like you wouldn’t have the wherewithal to attend your preppy schools and join your cliquey fraternities where all you do for four years is stay drunk and paddle each others’ asses! So don’t—"

Axel paused to catch his breath and would have continued his tirade if he hadn’t noticed the clerk’s jaw dropped open and a look of stunned surrender frozen on his face. Axel held his breath for a couple of seconds then exhaled. The clerk’s eyes bugged and he swallowed hard, apparently expecting the barrage to continue.

Are you all right? asked Axel.

I dropped out, blurted the clerk. His voice quavering with emotion.

What? said Axel.

Yeah man, I only attended community college and dropped out after the first year. I’m not the guy you’re talking about. I’m just a working stiff like everybody else. My dad changed truck tires for a living his entire life. He couldn’t afford university or prep school like you think.

The clerk appeared on the verge of breaking down. Axel glanced sideways over his shoulder to reorient himself to his surroundings and to make sure there wasn’t a security guard standing behind him with a .38 trained on his back.

Axel sometimes forgot how he intimidated others when he became upset. A girlfriend had once told him that when anger or disappointment gripped him, it was as if he turned into a blackhole, sucking out every ounce of air and light from whatever room he was in. But it was never something he intended. He didn’t want to be a light-sucking blackhole; he just wanted to say what he felt, like everyone else seemed permitted to do. But for some reason, his emotions, his observations, his piques, his very thoughts were too amplified to be digested by others, raw. This passion he felt was only another aspect of his life which had turned him into a human alien on Earth. In his mind he had never been one of them but neither had he desired to be theirs—and more so since the day in Vietnam in 1968 when he died for four to eight minutes aboard a medevac Huey on its way to the Army surgical hospital—certainly not since then had he bought into the paradigm which everyone else seemed to accept as normal.

In a moment Axel’s anger dissipated but, at the same time, he was in no mood to capitulate. If I get eighty-sixed by this shit-head, he thought, well, it wouldn’t be the first time. But it would be a pain in the ass, all the same.

Look, I’m just the courier here, said Axel. I’m buying the hooch for Miss Sharon. She’s my neighbor. She doesn’t get out much because she’s an alcoholic. You have her note in front of you which she gave me and I've given you. We’ve had this arrangement for years with Terry—the former manager—at this store, and it worked fine. The note bears her signature and telephone number. Call her! Call Miss Sharon. I’ll wait. I’m not trying to pull anything. It’ll only take a minute; just call and ask if the hooch is hers or not. Could you at least do that, please, for an old man?

The clerk picked up the note and looked at it again.

How do you pronounce her last name? he asked.

Just like it’s spelled: Plack - ie; rhymes with Blackie, you know, like the name of a cat or something.

The clerk shot Axel an annoyed glance then cleared his throat. He picked up the handset of the telephone behind the counter and gave Axel one more stern look. Axel shrugged as if to say, Go on! The clerk held the handset to his ear for a second or two then placed it back in the cradle.

Okay, I’ll tell you what, said the clerk, I believe you. But let me ask you this: Do Ray and Gary sell you hooch, ahem—I mean—product without identification?

They both do, all the time. But they know me. It’s never a problem.

"You know, all you would’ve had to do was produce an ID and that would have been the end of it. But I suspect you were already here, at the store, when you remembered you had left your identification at home, again , because you're so used to buying product without it. But I’m a play-by-the-book sort of guy so I’m always going to ask for ID if I think it’s prudent to do so. You forgot your ID, didn’t you?"

The clerk smiled slyly. He wanted an admission of some kind from Axel so Axel gave him one.

What can I say? Yes, I left my ID back at the swamp. And it’s a long way back and a hot day and Dixie and I—

I understand. I understand. You don’t have to explain, interrupted the clerk condescendingly. But next time bring your ID. That way all of this unpleasantness can be avoided. Okay?

Yes, sir, said Axel Message received. He smiled broadly as he shoved his large hand into the pocket which held the money that Miss Plackie had given him.

The clerk rang up the items, counted back change, and carefully placed each of the bottles into paper bags individually before placing all three into a sturdy, solid black bag that had handles. That done, he slid the bag towards Axel.

Thank you. Have a wonderful day, he said impersonally, concluding the process.

Uh, is the receipt in the bag? asked Axel.

Yes, I put both the receipt and your note from home in the bag.

Thank you, said Axel who doffed his hat and left the store.

Axel found Dixie dancing with delight when finally he rejoined her outside. He bent and patted her head and uttered the usual kudos for being so patient with him. Then, on a nearby bench, he sat the liquor store bag down and took from it the receipt and Miss Plackie’s note which he stuffed in a pocket. After that, he lifted the fifth of bourbon out of the bag and held to the light to inspect its rich, clear contents and, satisfied, slid the bottle into another pocket and snapped it closed. Finally, he turned his attention back to Dixie and, while rubbing her soft jowls, put his face nose-to-nose with hers and spoke to her in a tone other people reserve for talking to infant children:

Why thank you, Miss Sharon, he cooed. You didn’t have to do that. No, you didn’t. Dixie and I would have gladly hiked ten miles just for the exercise. Wouldn’t we girl? But thank you all the same, Miss Sharon, for your generosity. We do enjoy a nip of bourbon now and then. Don’t we girl? Yes, we do, said Axel as Dixie wagged her whole rump wildly and smiled with her dripping tongue hanging from her mouth.

At that moment, Dixie might have been the happiest dog in the world. And Axel? Well, he felt like a soldier who had just humped a dozen klicks and returned to camp unscathed. It hadn’t been his worst day.

The Big Deal

Chapter 3

The ceiling lights of the seventh floor were arranged in the most artful way. They were tennis ball-sized holes in the ceiling in which hot, halogen micro-lamps were set. But these recessed lights looked as if the architect had walked around the entire floor, before any walls were constructed, and randomly shot a paintball gun at the ceiling and wherever the paintballs struck, there he placed a light. The arrangement of the lights reminded one of stars in the midnight firmament. But despite their seemingly organic and random design, the ceiling lights perfectly illuminated niches holding sculptures, paintings hanging in hallways, floor plants in corners of rooms, planter boxes perched atop half-walls, coffee tables in sitting areas, as well as entryways, signage, drinking fountains and so forth, including the ultramodern fountain, fashioned out of slabs of black stone, that stood in the center of the lobby. Everything about the seventh floor was plush and tasteful.

Matuka & Moore, LLC, occupied the seventh floor of the stylish, new Mercantile Building, located in downtown Clemden. Matuka & Moore was a brokerage firm which specialized in multimillion-dollar mergers between, mostly, heavy equipment or agribusiness clients. Hunter Carr was M and M’s top broker and was, at that moment, in the firm’s main conference room, hammering out the final agreement in the biggest deal of his career.

If the deal went through, Hunter stood to earn close to a half-million dollars on its commission. But if you could have been there and watched him work from outside the thick, glass walls of the conference room, you might have assumed he was leading a creative, brainstorming session rather than a high-stakes negotiation. You would have assumed this because he appeared very relaxed and smiled as he spoke and even cracked humorous remarks at which the other stern faces around the table smiled tautly. He was the only animated figure among the group of fifteen dark-suited men and women assembled in that room.

Hunter wore a well-tailored, black suit which looked both perfectly pressed and, at the same time, soft. He wore an expensive white shirt of Indian cotton and a smart blue tie which had a geometric design of intertwined, monochromatic boxes which conveyed an understated texture. Mandy Carr always bought her husband a new tie as a good luck charm for occasions such as this and, in Hunter’s case, the charms seemed to work since he was the most successful broker at his firm.

The big-deal meeting ended without flourish. One minute, they were all sitting stoically as Hunter spoke; then a person on one side of the table commented briefly; then a person on the other side of the table commented briefly; then Hunter made another short remark; then all of the participants began standing. Some shook hands and nodded to each other hurriedly as they gathered pens, laptops, and cell phones. All began stowing files and devices in briefcases and, when finished, filed out of the conference room like students leaving a classroom after a bell and in a hurry to be somewhere else. Three attendees made it a point to shake Hunter’s hand before leaving, but in five minutes, everything was done and Hunter himself left the conference room headed for the men’s executive lavatory, located a short distance down the hall.

On his way to the restroom, carrying his briefcase in one hand, with his free hand he withdrew a cell phone from the inside pocket of his suit coat and pressed the button that turned it on. The smooth, glass face of the phone lit up.

The men’s executive restroom was gray marble everywhere—floor, walls, and sinks—and gleaming chrome fixtures. It also had a leather-topped table for holding briefcases, an expanse of mirrors behind the sinks, and an open closet with padded wooden hangers where a CEO or Vice President could hang his coat. Hunter placed his briefcase on the table then dialed Mandy at home. Mandy answered the phone:

Hello?

I guess we can’t win ‘em all, said Hunter tiredly.

Oh sweetie, really? What went wrong?

Things.

So is that it? Is the whole thing off?

Not quite, said Hunter Actually, I’m punking you.

What! Mandy screamed.

The deal’s done, said Hunter. Mandy, it’s a company record.

What? What? I can’t believe it, she said incredulously.

This was the big one, Man. The tie worked. We sign everything next week. Close to a half-million in commission.

Hunter held the phone away from his ear as Mandy squealed with delight.

I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it, she said breathlessly. Honey, sweetie, can you come home now?

Not this minute, said Hunter. I still have calls to make.

Okay, it’s three o’clock now. Can you leave by four? Please?

Yes, I can do that.

Good because I’ve got an intimate celebration party planned. I’ve made a reservation at the Combine for eight o’clock.

That was a tad presumptuous, don’t you think, booking a fancy restaurant before the deal’s final?

You tell me, Mister Record-Breaker, was there ever any doubt? said Mandy, a smile in her voice. Oh, now I have to go. I’ve got to let everyone know.

I thought you said: ‘intimate’? said Hunter.

I did. And it is. Only four couples besides us. That’s intimate. Okay, sweetie, going to run now. Be home at four, no later. Comprende?

Si, Senora.

Bye.

The phone in Hunter’s hand, he held pressed to his ear, went dead.

Hunter and Mandy Carr’s home in Waterford was a Frank Lloyd Wright Prairie Style knockoff but a very good one. It was constructed of flagstone and smooth beams; it had a low-pitched roof and open-beam ceilings; the mood of the interior of the house could be described as airy . Lots of cedar and glass and a peek-through fireplace which heated living room and dining room simultaneously when it was used. Of course, Mandy Carr had a natural talent for interior design and the Carr residence showcased that gift quite well. The house was surrounded by mature landscaping of various kinds of flowering shrubbery, a few dwarf deciduous trees as accents, and islands of spruce and fir, placed strategically, to shield the residence from the rest of the world. It was a nice house at the edge of town. Hunter and Mandy lived with their daughter, Greta, who was one year away from entering college.

It was seven o’clock. The Carrs were in the master bedroom, finishing dressing for the party at eight. The master bedroom was a large room which featured one entire wall of exposed flagstone, at the center of which were situated a fireplace and mantelpiece and, in front of these, a cozy sitting area. Also, Hunter and Mandy each had their own dressing closet and separate bathroom at opposite ends of the master bedroom. Hunter emerged from his dressing closet.

How do I look? he asked his wife.

You look exactly how I meant for you to look when I laid out your clothes, said Mandy. You look gorgeous and very, very successful.

Hunter was a handsome man in his late forties. He wore his straight, sand-colored hair combed back which showed off the graceful braces of his enviable hairline. That evening, Mandy had laid out for him brown, gaberdine slacks, a starched oxford shirt, a yellow silk tie, a tweed sports jacket, and his Italian, tasseled penny loafers. He was a work of art and Mandy was the artist.

Mandy had put on her black pantyhose and bra and had finished her hair and makeup but had yet to slip into her black dress, shoes, and bracelet. She wore her most expensive perfume.

I’m going out to the pool, said Hunter. He had made himself a bourbon and water from the liquor cabinet and wet bar which occupied one corner of their room.

That’s fine. I won’t be minute, said Mandy.

She looked at her husband admiringly.

Wait. Come here a second, she added.

As they came together Mandy wrapped her arms seductively around Hunter’s neck. She also hooked one leg around his and cantilevered her lower body tightly into his as he stood holding his drink.

I would kiss you very hard but I don’t want to mess up my lipstick. You’ll just have to wait till later for that, she purred in his ear then grinned at him, her white teeth sparkling.

Mm-huh, agreed Hunter.

He caressed her derrière with his free hand.

Hunter, Are you okay?

Yes, I’m perfectly okay. Why?

Hmm, she shrugged. I don’t know; you just seem a little tense, maybe.

That’s why I’ve got this, said Hunter and held up his glass.

Don’t start too early, okay?

This is a pretty big day, you know; I feel like celebrating a little, said Hunter.

A little is fine, said Mandy. Besides, I’m expecting a blockbuster performance out of you, Mr. Carr, when we get home tonight.

"So who have you invited to this intimate shindig, party thing?" Hunter asked.

Well, there’s Kimberley and Sean, Robin and Nick, Karrie and Brandon, and Shelby and Bryan.

You invited Shelby and Bryan?

Yes, of course, she said while inspecting her earrings in the mirror.

They’re not going to have any fun, you know; they’re so damned competitive. The whole night they’ll be gritting their teeth with envy while fake-fawning over our good fortune.

Why do you suppose I invited them, dear? said Mandy grinning.

You’re the Devil.

No, I’m just devilish. Besides, if I didn’t invite them, they’d be even more upset.

I suppose so, said Hunter. Listen, I’m going to catch a breath of air before we leave; I’ll see you when you’re ready.

Okay Mr. Carr. I’ll be there soon.

Hunter refreshed his bourbon and water; Mandy went to her closet to put on her dress. He was about to leave the bedroom.

Oh, what about Greta? asked Hunter.

What about Greta? said Mandy.

Well, I mean, where is she tonight?

She’s at Naomi’s right now. But she said something about her and Naomi coming back here for a swim, later. I think they like skinny-dipping in the pool after we’ve gone to bed.

Maybe we should join them, joked Hunter.

Now I know why your daughter thinks you’re weird.

I was joking!

I know.

Greta thinks I’m weird?

Yes, but that’s normal for girls her age; they think all older men are weird. You shouldn’t worry about it. Get some air. I’ll be ready soon, said Mandy nonchalantly.

I’m an ‘older man’ now? objected Hunter.

Sweetheart, I need space.

Older man my ass, grumbled Hunter as he left the room.

On the main floor, towards the back of the house, the beginning of stone pavers delineated the end of the living room and kitchen and the beginning of a recessed patio which extended from inside the house, out to the swimming pool in the backyard. The retractable partition, used only when the Carrs were not at home or during the winter, had already been closed and locked so Hunter had to use the kitchen door to get to the alcove and the pool outside. Potted citrus bushes—lemons, limes, and mandarin oranges—an arbor, overgrown with grape vines and bordered with lavender and sage, and rattan lounge furniture on the patio, lent the alcove a Tuscan flavor. When the partition was open, as it usually was, the transition between house and garden was seamless.

In the alcove Hunter inhaled deeply the warm July air of the evening. The pool was perfectly placid, not a ripple. The interior of the pool had tiled walls and recessed flood lights which illuminated its crystal water during the evening and at night. How the clean, calm water so fascinated him Hunter did not understand completely. But he loved to be near it and to look into its depths. It soothed him, gave him tranquility, offered him relief from his normal pace of life.

Hunter strolled to the pool’s edge then surveyed its length. There were no stray air mattresses or pool toys floating on its surface; everything was in order the way he liked it. He could hear the quiet hum of the filter pump working and inhaled the clean smell of chlorine wafting up from the water.

He walked to the platform of the diving board and up its steps. In his leather-soled penny loafers he carefully skated to the end of the board, squatted, set down his bourbon and water, then sat himself down on the very end of the board and, finally, picked up his drink again. He sipped the drink, letting his feet dangle free, above the water’s surface, and stared down at the drain grid, below him at the bottom of the deep end. Getting off the diving board without falling into the water would take a bit more skill than getting on, but he had done it so many times before that, by then, he was expert at it.

Hunter, sweetheart, what are you doing? said Mandy quizzically. She stood on the patio in her black dress and heels with an orange, blue, and pink wrap of silk draped over her slender shoulders. She was stunningly elegant.

I’m relaxing, said Hunter.

Well, my love, I’m ready now. Please don’t fall in.

I’ll try, he said. He stood and began waving his arms like a maniacal high-wire performer, pretending to lose his balance.

Whoa-whoa-oa! he shouted, feigning jeopardy.

Oh god! cried Mandy who instinctively started wobbling towards the swimming pool in her high heels at which point Hunter chortled and strolled off the board and down the platform steps to meet her. He laughed as he reached out to embrace his scowling wife.

Humph! she grunted as she slugged her husband’s arm sharply.

Ouch! said Hunter, rubbing his arm but continued snickering at Mandy’s reaction. That hurt, he laughed.

That’s for scaring me, she said. But then she chuckled at herself and took his arm in hers as they made their way to the garage.

A minute or two later the couple were riding comfortably in the cabin of their silver-gray sport utility vehicle, driving White Chapel Drive in Waterford, on their way to Clemden where they would meet their friends for dinner. Mandy had tuned the radio to a classical station which, at the moment, featured selections by Beethoven. They drove eastward so the setting sun threw streaks of orange and violet into the sky behind them.

Why do you do that? asked Mandy after a minute.

Do what? said Hunter.

Walk the plank: you know, the thing with the diving board? What’s with that?

Hunter shrugged.

It makes me feel good? His answer was a question.

But why does it make you feel good?

I don’t know, said Hunter. I guess because the water’s clean; I can see the bottom.

Mandy shook her head as she turned to look out the passenger window and watch the landscape pass.

They rode quietly for a few minutes, listening to Beethoven.

Greta’s right, you know, said Mandy finally, "you are weird."

Two couples paused on the pavement in front of the Combine. The party had ended and they traded small talk as they prepared to part and head home. The hour was late.

So what are you guys going to do with all that moola? asked Shelby.

Ah, well, we haven’t even thought about it yet, stammered Mandy as she traded looks with Hunter.

Probably pay off the mortgage, said Hunter.

The four of them laughed. They stood outside the Combine in the pleasant night air.

What? No exotic vacation to Kathmandu or the Amazon rainforest? added Bryan.

No, see, we never allow ourselves to count our chickens before they hatch so, truthfully, we haven’t even spitballed the possibilities, yet, said Hunter. But we will, I assure you, as soon as the ink is dry on the contract.

Well, we should let you guys go, said Bryan, his arm draped over Shelby’s shoulder. Thank you for dinner and drinks tonight. We had a great time.

Our pleasure, said Hunter.

Bryan turned to Shelby. Well, babe, shall we?

Yeah, we need to go. I told the babysitter we’d be home an hour ago. We love you guys, said Shelby.

We love you too, said Mandy. Goodnight!

Hey, you guys have to come over for a cookout, okay, before summer’s over. Can we do that? asked Shelby.

Shelby and Bryan were already walking away, into the shadows, towards the corner of the parking lot where their car was parked.

Anytime! called Hunter.

Goodnight! said Mandy, once more.

Bryan waved before the couple turned and stepped from the curb into the parking lot. Mandy laced her arm into Hunter’s and they headed the opposite direction to find their car.

That turned out better than I thought. I really had fun tonight, said Hunter.

Yes, you did, said Mandy.

Just then, Hunter and Mandy stepped from the sidewalk onto the parking lot asphalt. Hunter’s knee buckled and he staggered sideways but Mandy tugged on his arm and righted him so he caught his balance.

Thanks, said Hunter, I wasn’t expecting that step.

Maybe I should drive home, suggested Mandy.

Don’t be silly. I’m fine. It's dark. I missed the step; no big deal. Really, I’m okay. Besides, it’s only a ten minute drive home.

It’s twenty minutes or I’m taking the keys, said Mandy.

"Okay, twenty minutes. I will drive like the old man my daughter thinks I am. Will that satisfy you, my dear?"

Yes, it will.

Like a gentleman, Hunter helped Mandy into her side of the car.

Thank you, Mr. Carr, said Mandy.

You’re welcome, M'dame. Hunter bowed like a chauffeur. He was feeling quite good.

At the traffic signal on Cherry Street, Hunter made a left turn instead of going straight.

Ah, sweetheart, said Mandy calmly, are we lost?

You might be but I’m not, said Hunter.

Where are we going?

Home. Haven’t you ever been this way?

No, I haven’t.

It’s a shortcut.

Hunter, please, let’s just go the normal way.

I go this way all the time. It’s at least five minutes faster. No traffic signals and all that.

I prefer traffic signals and street lamps over dark backroads, especially at night. Please, can we go the other way? pleaded Mandy.

Where’s your sense of adventure, Man? Maybe we’ll find a dark farm road and park a while and make out and I’ll feel you up and give you a hickey, or something. How does that sound?

It sounds sophomoric. And don’t call me ‘Man’.

You’re shaving my buzz, man.

I said, don’t call me Man.

I wasn’t. I was, like, talking hippie lingo, man. You know, like, Cheech and Chong? Hunter mimicked Tommy Chong’s stoner voice.

Ha, ha, Mandy deadpanned. Now shut up, Chong, and watch the road.

They bounced over a railroad track and entered an unlit backroad which was brushy and narrow and bounded on both sides by deep drainage ditches and barbed wire fences. Into the car entered the pungent odor of cow manure through the ventilation system.

Oh my god! cried Mandy, who turned up the fan to full blast which only gave the odor more strength.

It’ll clear out in a minute, said Hunter.

But no sooner had he said it than the eye-watering stench of skunk overtook the cow dung and caused both riders to curse.

It’s going to ruin our clothes, said Mandy.

Hunter pressed the accelerator to run away from the skunk and shot down the backroad through the moonlit countryside. In a few minutes, they reached the twisted segment of road which led down to the silver bridge and the Old River.

"Hunter, this looks dangerous. Would you please slow down?" asked Mandy.

No one’s out here, Man—dy. I’ll bet you thought I was going to say ‘Man’ again, didn’t you.

Just slow down! You're making my toes curl in my shoes!

They angled left around a bend then straightened out. Hunter took his foot off of the accelerator and the car began to slow.

See, no problem. There’s the bridge now. We’ll be home in five minutes, said Hunter patronizingly.

The road narrowed as they reached the iron bridge which had been painted silver. Hunter cruised across it. He glanced over at his wife who sat stiffly hugging the passenger-side door.

Mandy, I was just having fun— Hunter started to explain.

LOOK OUT! Mandy screamed as she jumped up straight in her seat and pointed at something through the windshield.

Hunter snapped his head forward in time to see that the car had drifted right and there before them stood what looked like a ghost. It was a man, all white, caught in the headlights, eyes wide with terror, holding out one hand towards the car to brace himself for impact and, in the other, holding a fishing pole.

Mandy screamed and Hunter jerked the steering wheel left. As he did, the ghost slapped the hood of their car as it swerved hard and missed him.

AHHHH! screamed Mandy again. Then a loud thud as the car hit something on the passenger side. Hunter instinctively sped up to escape whatever trouble he had caused.

STOP THE CAR! cried Mandy. Stop! You have to stop!

Did I hit the old man? yelled Hunter.

No! You hit the dog!

Hunter continued racing up Clemden Road towards Waterford village.

Dog?! There was no dog, just a man with a fishing pole. Did I hit the man?

No. You missed the man. There was a dog too—

I didn’t see any dog!

A black and white dog; it ran into the road. You hit it!

No! That bang was the man hitting the hood of our car with his fist. I saw him do it as we went by. He was mad, roared Hunter.

Hunter exhaled. Perspiration suddenly soaked his collar. He hooked a finger behind the knot of his necktie and tugged it loose.

Hunter, you know we have to go back, said Mandy.

No, we don’t. Why would some idiot walk his dog on a road like this in the middle of the night, anyway? It’s insane and it’s not my fault if his dog got—hit. Besides, you said yourself the dog ran into the road: In cases of animal verses car, the automobile always has the right of way. Legally, I’m not even supposed to swerve—for a dog, I mean.

Please, Hunter, we have to go back.

And do what? Pay the coot for his damned dog?

No. To make sure he’s all right. And to offer assistance if he needs any.

All that would accomplish would be to open a legal can of worms.

We’re not talking about legalities. We’re talking about right and wrong, Hunter, and I know you know the difference, said Mandy emphatically. "We need to do the right thing ."

But Hunter did not turn around. They rode a minute without speaking.

You’re sure I didn’t hit the man or another person? he asked.

You hit a black and white dog. It looked like a collie.

I don’t think collies are black and white.

I don’t know what it was, said Mandy exasperated. It had long hair like a collie. It was shaped like a collie. It was black and white in color. If you don’t go back, I’m not going to forgive you and you’re going to ruin our night.

Our night’s already been ruined by some stupid person who walks his damned dog in the country at night, said Hunter.

That’s where the matter ended for the rest of the ride home.

Once home, Mandy told Hunter she was exhausted, needed a shower, and was going to bed.

Besides, she added, you’re drunk and I don’t like drunks.

I am not drunk, he protested. "I know when I’ve had too many. I wish you wouldn’t let