Waiting for Harvey (The Spirits of Maine)

WAITING FOR

HARVEY

Lydia North

Copyright © 201
4 Kim Scott

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1499534949

ISBN-13:
978-1499534948

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the ghosts of Maine. They contribute to the unique quality of life that makes this State such a magical place.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you so much to Georgia Jones and Brenda Jones for their assistance with editing.

Thank you to Ashley Yerxa for providing the name of the main character.

Thank you to Andy Jones, Registered Maine Guide and Andrew Jones, Licensed Hunter & Trapper, for their information and ideas.

To everyone who encouraged me to step boldly into a new genre and begged me to write faster, thank you!

Kim Scott (writing as Lydia North)

“Well folks, it looks like this one is going to miss Florida completely!” the man in the blue suit and silver tie announced.  “The course of Hurricane Rosemary is expected to take it up the east coast, by-passing Florida and the Carolina’s.  It will likely dip toward the shoreline first at New Jersey.  New York City is bracing for a direct hit from this one.  Let’s go live to the press conference with New York Mayor Donati.”

The Mayor stood in front of the podium, surrounded by the members of his emergency management team.  He declared that a mandatory evacuation had been ordered for select zones of New York City.  They were not ordering everyone out of the city, but were recommending that all residents leave if at all possible.  The announcements droned on as various officials spoke and answered questions. 

Standing at the window, looking out on Park Avenue, I watched the people scurrying along.  The November sky was a brilliant blue with few clouds.  There was no hint of the cataclysmic storm that was promised.  I wondered if there were hidden signs that ancient man would have detected.  Something disregarded with our focus on modern technology.

The press conference ended.  A cheerful jingle, being sung far too loudly, professed the virtues of a new environmentally friendly tampon.
  After a stream of annoying commercials, the enthusiastic meteorologists returned.  As they spoke, an Air Force plane was flying through the eye of the storm.  With the new data there would be a myriad of new predictions and warnings.  Up and down the east coast, every angle of the story was being covered by an army of reporters.

The circus atmosphere was out of control.  I muted the TV and grabbed my phone.  I hated the idea of giving in to the hype, but it was getting harder to dismiss it all.  Reluctantly, I jabbed at the numbers and waited for it to ring through.

“Rivard Landscaping, may I help you?” the pleasant voice answered.

“Is John in?” I asked.

“Mr. Rivard is in a meeting,” she responded.  “Could I take a message?”

“Tell him it’s his younger brother and it’s important.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied and I was on hold.  The tune ‘What a Wonderful World’, played on a flute, flowed through the phone.  I shook my head and smiled.

“What’s wrong?” John demanded.  His voice could easily be mistaken for Darth Vader, and when he spoke in his insistent tone it felt a bit menacing.

“Have you been watching the news about Hurricane Rosemary?”

“Yes, I expected that you’d be on a plane for the west coast already.”

“They’re saying it will be another two days before it hits New York.  There is so much fluff it could end up going out to sea, leaving us with nothing but rain.”

“Erik, the experts are recommending evacuations.  Pack a bag and get your butt out of there.  Don’t screw around on this.”

“You worry too much, John.”

“And you don’t worry enough, little brother.”

“Hey, what shape is your hunting cabin in?”

“It still needs work but it’s livable.  Are you thinking about heading up this way?”

“Yeah, I haven’t been home to Maine in more than a year now.  I’m struggling with writer’s block, and I was thinking a week alone in the woods might help.”

“Erik, this cabin is almost as rustic now as it was when we were kids.  It has none of the luxuries of a New York City apartment.  You sure about this?”

“Over the past few weeks I’ve dreamed of the cabin several times.  I think I’m ready to get away from the city for a while.”

“You better get on it.  There is a mass exodus underway, and you are bound to have some trouble with transportation.  Lucky for you most people are heading west or south.  Not many coming up this way.”

“I’ll book a flight and should be there by supper time tonight.”

“Okay, call me as soon as you have your reservation.  I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

“Later,” I responded and disconnected the call.

For more than an hour I tried unsuccessfully to make reservations.  Some of the flights north from New York had been cancelled, and the planes were flying west instead.  I packed my bags and continued my search for transportation.  Growing more discouraged, I started calling friends and business associates, but found no help.

“Lou, I’m headed out of town, probably up to Maine for a few days,” I advised my accountant.  “Don’t know how long I’ll be so handle the bills until I return.”

“Not a problem,” he responded, cheerfully from his office in Ohio.

“Any ideas on getting out of the City today?”

“Go to the bus or train station.  Buy a ticket to Las Vegas and trade it with someone headed north.”

“Genius, Lou!”

“Yeah, that’s why you pay me the big bucks,” he laughed.

Thanks to Lou, I was on a bus bound for Portland, Maine by late evening.

*

Seated beside an old woman who was holding a sleeping baby, I stared out at the dark roadside.  Humming softly, the bus rumbled along Route 1, headed north to Maine.  I texted John to let him know I’d be arriving at the bus station in Portland at about 4:00 in the morning.  I fell asleep and woke from another dream about the cabin.  The old woman glared at me, and I felt certain that I’d called out in my sleep.

“Hello,” John roused from his sleep to answer my call.  I felt guilty for waking him, but I needed to talk with him.

“It’s me, John.”

“Erik!” the deep, rumbling voice replied. 

“Sorry to wake you.”

“It’s okay.  What’s wrong?”

“I’m on the bus.  I dreamed about the cabin again.”

“Okay.”

“I’m thinking maybe I’ll just stay at a hotel for a day or two and go home as soon as the storm is done.”

“What’s going on, Erik?”

“These dreams have me a little freaked out.”

“They’re only dreams.”

“It’s stirring up stuff I haven’t thought about in forever.”

“Erik, leave the past where it belongs.”

“You don’t get it, John.”

“You’re making this trip into something it’s not.  Don’t get all crazy about it.  Go up to the cabin, do some writing, and go home again.  No reason to make it complicated.”

“Can you take some time off and hang out up there for a week?”

“No, I have ton of work to be done and the storm is just complicating things.”

“John, do you remember?”

“Remember what?” he demanded

“That summer…”

“Stop, Erik!  It was two decades ago, and there is nothing to be gained by dragging it all up again.”

“Was there someone there?”

“NO!” he shouted, leaving my ear ringing.  “It was a kid’s game!  We were playing with a store bought game.  There was nothing creepy but our imaginations.  I don’t have time for this crap, Erik.  Are you going up there or not?  If you’re just staying at a hotel here, you can get a cab when your bus gets in, and I’ll meet you for supper.”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m going up,” he stammered, fighting the urge to pull the cord and make the bus driver stop.  I wanted to get off and hitchhike back to New York.  “Yeah, I’ll meet you at the bus station.  I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“We need to hit LL Bean and Hannaford’s for supplies before we head north,” he declared.  He was trying to change the tone of the conversation before hanging up.

“Thanks, John,” I muttered.  “Sorry, I woke you.”

“It’s okay.  I’ll see you in a few hours,” he replied, and he was gone.

*

With my bags and the supplies loaded in John’s truck, we started the six hour trip north from Scarborough.  The cabin was located up near St Francis, near the Canadian border with Maine.  It would be a good chance to catch up with each other.

John told me about the growth of his landscaping business.  He had recently purchased two more trucks to plow snow.  He had contracts with a number of shopping plazas and other businesses.  I was proud of him but not surprised.  John was business minded and well liked.  He succeeded at whatever he tried.

“What’s the problem with your book?” he asked, staring out the windshield at the broken yellow line on the road.

“I’m just having a hard time with the plot,” I tossed out, eager to change the subject.  Four years earlier my first book was published.  It soared to the top of all of the best seller lists and rested there for months.  My ego inflated quickly and carried me from Maine to New York City.  I bought a Park Avenue apartment and settled into my new life of parties and book signings.

More than a year passed before I sat down to write again.  My agent and the publisher were anxiously waiting for my next golden nugget.  I finished the second book and editors worked with me for months to smooth out the bumps.  It was released at last, and sales were pretty good.  The critics complained, but my readers were happy with it. 

That book came out more than a year ago, and I was struggling.  My agent called frequently to remind me that I was in danger of losing my publishing contract.  I had missed deadlines, and they were growing impatient.  The pressure did nothing to help with the writing process.

“What does that even mean?” John asked, shaking me from my wandering thoughts.

“What?”

“Writer’s block,” he uttered.

“Who said anything about writer’s block?” I snapped, immediately regretting my response.

“Touchy subject?”

“Very!” I responded and turned away.

“You just need a little time away from New York.  I don’t know how you can think in that rat maze.”

“It’s a nice place when you get used to it.”

“No thanks,” John declared.  “How long can you afford to be away?  Things are nuts at work right now, and it would help if I didn’t have to go all the way back upstate again too soon.”

“John, I told you I could just stay at a hotel in Portland,” I reminded him, defensively.

“It’s fine, but how do you feel about stay an extra week or two?”

“I’m a little bit leery about even going to the cabin, and you’re suggesting an extended stay?”

“Erik, we were kids!”

“We were, but that doesn’t mean it was just imagined.”

“Jimmy Flaherty put ideas in your head.  Over time, your imagination made a lot out of it.  Forget it.”

“I saw it, John.”

“You did not!  Jimmy was just playing tricks.  He was good that way.  It was a tough time.  Get it out of your head.”

John turned on the radio, officially ending the conversation.  We listened to the updates on the storm that was crawling up the east coast.  So far it was following the path that the experts had predicted.  The latest computer models showed its tracking over land at New Jersey.  It would then pass over New York City, Massachusetts and take a slap at the coast of Maine. 

Complicating matters, a cold front was sweeping down from northwest Canada.  The Alberta Clipper had already delivered frigid temperatures to Montana and the Dakota’s.  The temps had fallen from the low 40s to below zero in only a few hours.  Wolf Creek Pass in Colorado had two feet of fresh snow and the fast moving storm that brought it was moving to merge with the Alberta Clipper in Chicago.  If it all continued as expected, the perfect storm would converge on Maine in less than two days.

Deeply regretting my decision to go up to Maine and dreading the weeks I would be spending at the cabin, I tried to sleep.  I woke with John shaking me roughly and shouting my name. 

“Stop yelling!  What?” I called out, rubbing my face roughly.

“You were yelling at somebody,” he told me.

“Who?”

“I don’t know.  You were telling him to move and let you pass.”

“It was the cabin dream again.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” John determined.  “Just push it all out of your head and it will stop.”

“It’s not that easy.  I’m not as strong willed as you are.”

“Bull, just do it!”

“What did you improve after you bought the cabin from Jimmy’s uncle?” I asked, to change the subject.

“Over the summer I worked on it weekends.  I put in new windows, put on a new roof and had a new well dug.  There is a pump for the well and a solar panel on the roof.”

“Solar panel?” I repeated, surprised.

“Don’t get excited,” he laughed.  “It’s enough to power the pump and the lights but that’s about it.”

“Are you saying no TV or microwave?”

“Yeah!”

“There’s a coffee maker, right?”

“Wrong!”

“A refrigerator?”

“No,” he chuckled.  “Remember that root cellar under the kitchen?”

“No.”

“It’s a room with stone walls and a dirt floor.  It stays about 40° in the summer down there if you keep the trap door shut.  It’s great for cold storage.”