Secret Keepers and Skinny Shadows: Lee and Miranda (3 page)

With a gentle pat on Joan’s picture, he picked up the box, took one last look around the office then walked out of Wentworth Publishing for the last time.

On the drive home, he replayed the morning in his mind like a movie, recounting every detail.

Hoping it might be a bad dream and he would wake up soon. He couldn’t believe what they had done to him in a matter of minutes. Twenty-five years of dedicated service, wiped out, in a heartbeat. He lived and breathed editing and research for the company. Every six months he received offers from other publishing houses wanting him to come to work for them. Of course, when he stopped to think about it, there hadn’t been any of those offers in the last couple of years. He wasted so much of his life with Wentworth Publishing. He ignored Joan, his beautiful, compassionate wife, leaving her alone for weeks or months at a time. She was so understanding and loving. She told him many times, do what makes you happy, Lee. And like the selfish jerk he was, he did. He was glad Joan had Miranda as a friend. They grew up together and stayed friends through the years.

In looking back, Lee realized because Joan had Miranda it made it easy for him to cut her out of his life. After all, his career was what was important. Joan would have to find her own happiness. He knew when he returned home after a long road trip, she would be waiting for him with open arms to welcome him back. What foolish regrets he now had and he could never make it up to Joan, not now.

He ignored his family and friends, devoting his heart and soul to being the best in the business, and getting fired was his thanks.

                                
CHAPTER 4

Bridgetown, New York, February 1962

W
hen Joanie’s car was out of sight, Bert ambled across the room to the bed, sat on the edge of the mattress to finish lacing his other boot. He debated if he should put on his long underwear to keep him warm on the long walk to the bus, but he decided against it. It was too much work; he was anxious to get to town.

The house with all the furniture once belonged to his mother and father, now it was his to share with his sister. He was born in the log cabin still standing across the dirt driveway. The family moved into the new house when Bert was twelve years old.

At the dresser he was combing his hair, making sure he looked respectable. As he turned away, he did a double take, at the reflection looking back at him, he jumped, grabbing the dresser to steady his large frame. He gazed at the apparition perched on his shoulder staring back at him, rubbing his eyes in disbelief at the old goblin. He was scared because he only saw this ugly creature when he was drunk, and here it was looking back at him in the mirror. Bert raised his voice. Go away, Cadaverous, I haven’t started drinking yet. He reached up with his big hand to brush him off, as he did it revealed an evil grin, showing its pointed teeth, then vanished into thin air as quickly as it appeared. Bert shivered. Wide-eyed, he watched in the mirror to be sure it was gone.

He knew seeing that thing wasn’t a good sign, he continued to stare long and hard into the mirror thinking maybe he was going out of his mind, but he didn’t think he looked crazy.

He hurried for the door, turned into the hall and made his way toward the stairs, passing the attic door, he noticed it was standing open. He pushed it shut, locked it, and went down to the kitchen.

“You’re going to miss your bus to town if you don’t hurry.” His taste buds perked up smelling the fresh coffee, coming from the cup Lizzie was holding.

Before she could offer him some he said, “Cadaverous, the old goblin, was sitting on my shoulder up there again.”

Lizzie set her cup on the table, turned, shaking her crooked finger at him.

“It’s all our mother’s fault. If she hadn’t messed around with those evil spirits, doing all those weird things like stopping blood and blowing fire, you wouldn’t see the devil sitting on your shoulder all the time. Mark my words Bert, that’s a bad omen.”

He got up from his chair shaking his head. “Lizzie, shut up. Forget I ever mentioned it. You can’t blame our mother for everything. Janie and Joanie’s mother died seventeen years ago, but you’re the one who sees her standing at the foot of your bed in the middle of the night.”

By this time he was half listening to her and thinking how tasty the coffee smelled. On his way to the door, he stopped long enough to scoop up his wool hunting jacket hanging over the back of one of the wooden chairs. He slipped it on. He loved how warm and cozy it was as he buttoned it up.

The frosty February air sent a shiver through him when he opened the door, even though the sun was shining. Lizzie was mumbling something as he closed the door behind him. He breathed a sigh of relief to be out of earshot of her endless chattering. He thought about the poor man who might someday be her husband. 

Bertrand and Elizabeth shared their ancestral home built in 1899, in a little village, south of Bridgetown. Of course, no one called him Bertrand; he was known as Big Bert Grayson. Elizabeth was Liz to most people and Lizzie to Bert.

They were the only two of five children in the family who never saw marriage in their futures. One reason could’ve been Bert was too much of a drinking man while Lizzie was too prim and proper—all the men who came into her life never lived up to her expectations. Together, this brother and sister continued to live on the old homestead that occupied a half-acre in the middle of one hundred acres of prime farmland in the lush mountains of New York.

Their mother and father passed away without leaving a will. This led to family battles over dividing up the estate, leaving five strong-willed children to settle it. Bert and Liz had permission from their siblings to live in the family homestead until one of them died, then the property was to be split up between the remaining heirs.

One of the heirs, Miser the oldest sister grew restless and unhappy with this arrangement. She wanted Bert and Lizzie kicked out and everything divided up right away. She didn’t want to wait for her inheritance, but she had no choice. The majority ruled. That was the agreement between the five of them established many years ago.

Every Saturday Bert walked a mile and a half from his home to catch the afternoon bus to town. He knew he was running late so he picked up the pace, coming to the conclusion his work cloths weren’t warm enough by the time he arrived at the bus stop. He stood waiting on the bus thinking he should’ve put on his long Johns, but at least he was smart enough to put on his jacket.

An icy wind started to blow, stinging his already wind-burned cheeks. He wished the bus would come soon. Shivering, he rocked back and forth from one foot to the other, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them for warmth, sending white puffs of smoke up into the air.

Today he was alone at the bus stop. Over his right shoulder at the amusement park he could hear music coming from a jukebox. The fans from the food courts filled the air with pizza and pepperoni, teasing his nose. It brought back memories of his teen years and Lillian when he worked at the park. The horses from the merry-go-round and all the other rides had been packed up and put away for the winter. The park owner made money through the cold months selling pizza, hoagies, and drinks to the locals, as well as an occasional traveler.

The long bus ride wasn’t something Bert enjoyed it was a necessity. A few months back he demolished his truck coming home from a night of drinking, when he lost control and ran it over a cliff. The truck landed on the riverbank below wedged between two trees, saving the truck and Bert from the chilling waters. The doctors said it was a good thing he was drunk. The booze kept him from freezing to death and relaxed enough to keep him from serious injuries. It was then the police took away his driving privileges.

As the bus pulled up, he hurried aboard, taking a seat in the front close to the heater. After a thirty-minute ride, the bus deposited him one block from his favorite drinking establishment.

About ten o’clock that night the sky started spitting snow as he walked into the sixth bar on his list. The windowsills as well as the sides of the buildings were soon blanketed white. The blinking neon lights of the bars and eateries on the south end reflected unrecognizable shapes on the new-fallen snow. The strong wind exposed shiny patches of ice, glazing the sidewalks.

When he stumbled into the next bar, he thought he noticed the same man in every bar he went into. He always came in after Bert taking a seat in a booth with his back to him. He was a man whom Bert knew from years ago, and couldn’t remember his name, what he did recall was he didn’t care for the guy. Determined not to let him spoil his night on the town, he soon pushed the thought of the man to the back of his mind, and returned to his drinking.

Bert forgot about eating dinner spending his last dollar on beer number twenty in bar number nine, the Squashed Frog, his favorite. He was drinking his Bud and doing his best to stay out of trouble, when the stranger started crowding back into his thoughts, intruding on his fun. He wished he would’ve taken a seat in one of the booths away from the door, because
every time a patron came in a chilling blast of wind followed them.

His stomach growled from hunger in spite of all the beer. Gulping down the last of the brew in his glass he was ready to leave. As he wobbled up from the bar stool, a loud belch came from nowhere. He held his hand to his mouth, rolled his eyes from side to side, he was glad no one was paying attention. He moved his big hand in a slow swipe across his lips, as he staggered toward the exit. When he reached the door, it swung wide open, a blast of icy wind took his breath away as he stared down into the face of a short boyish looking man.

“Hi Bert, let me hold the door for you.” Bert blinked, staring at the man, his head was fuzzy from too much booze and lack of food. It took him a few seconds to come up with the man’s name.

“Thanks Henry.”

Bert liked Henry, he thought they connected on a personal level, by being too shy to speak to people, but unlike Bert, Henry was a nice guy. Bert’s friends and acquaintances were perceptive enough to know not to cross him, because those who did knew he had a way of taking care them.

The giant of Bridgetown was the nickname they hung on Bert in his younger days when he went ten rounds at the old theater on Rainbow Street in a boxing match with John L. Lewis. Bert was one big, rough guy. His reputation was known around town, but in the south end Big Bert Grayson was respected by many, feared by a lot, and loved by all the women.

Bert stumbled out onto the street.

“Hey Bert, you better grab hold of one of those light poles so you don’t slip and fall on the ice.”

Bert saluted the guy and continued down the busy avenue. He maneuvered his massive frame toward the light poles swinging around some of them with one arm, waving and smiling at the passers-by with the other. A lot of them Bert knew by name.

The aroma of hot dogs and onions mingled together, drifting out into the street, teasing his nose, pulling him toward the little diner, about two hundred feet ahead. He was confident he could make it without falling. After all, he didn’t want to look like a common old drunk.

His hunger intensified with the aroma from the hot dog diner. Lizzie wanted to fix something for him, but he told her he would eat in town. Besides, Lizzie was busy primping while waiting for her new man friend to arrive. They were going out to dinner, then to see the new movie Dr. No. Lizzie was in love with James Bond.

He was now one hundred feet from the diner on the corner of Fifth and Tenth streets. The reputation of the diner had spread around the state. Hot dog lovers drove from all over to experience the best in the world at Jim’s Diner. On week-ends lines of men and women waited for hours to experience the taste.

As he muddled his way down the street, he paused every now and then to enjoy the sounds of the night. Loud voices of drunks cursing, the soft voices of women talking, loud jukebox tunes drifting out into the cold night air.

At last he was in front of the diner and still standing on his feet. He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

When he pulled the door open, heat wrapped around him like a warm blanket, causing him to wobble more, once inside he hung onto the glass door for balance.

He didn’t look around; he wanted to get to the empty stainless steel red vinyl-covered stool to sit down before he fell over. He lurched toward the counter at the empty seat beside a man he knew. With a thick tongue and slurred words, he managed to say, “Cain, it sure is cold outside tonight. I’m surprised to see you here so late. Your shift must have ended hours ago.”

“Yeah, it did. I thought I’d get a dog and suds while I waited for my ride home. We worked overtime in the roundhouse. The extra money always comes in handy this time of the year. Know what I mean. It pays for the heat in the drafty old house I live in. The old lady complains a lot about how cold the house always is.”

He nodded in agreement, remembering the drafty old century home he lived in. “I know what you mean.”

Bert wobbled around on the stool balancing himself. The diner was full. Some of the patrons were standing in the back, leaning on the walls drinking a glass of beer while talking to one another. He glanced around the room to see if he knew anyone. His eyes stopped at the back booth where he spotted the petite dark-haired woman. She was facing a heavy-set man. Bert patted his wallet in his shirt pocket. Lillian’s phone number was safely tucked inside
.
From the back, the man across from her looked like her piggish husband. Bert never understood why she put up with him.

He stared at her until she stopped talking, glanced up and made eye contact with him. The giant raised his hand and saluted her, almost falling off the stool when he brought his arm down. She smiled and turned her attention back to piggish.

Bert paused at the third booth, what caught his eye was a woman sliding an envelope across the table to a man who took it, then quickly shoved it inside his jacket pocket. The woman’s back was to Bert, he thought she looked like Donna, one of his nieces who hounded him, trying to buy some land he didn’t want to sell. He wobbled back around and continued his conversation with Cain.

“Would you lend me five dollars to buy a couple hot dogs and a beer? I didn’t get to the bank so I couldn’t cash my pension check. I brought it along thinking one of the bars might cash it for me, but they wouldn’t.”

Cain pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to him. Bert noticed Cain’s eyes stopped at the pension check sticking out of his shirt pocket.

“Sure, here you are.”

“Thanks, you’re a real friend.” Bert pushed the five-dollar bill across the counter. “Jim, I’ll have two dogs and a beer.”