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I
I was reluctant to leave the warmth and the smell of the coffee behind. I stepped out of the café and looked around. The street was deserted and the wind rattled the dead leaves in the gutter, reminding me it was fall. I had to get going. Looking left I saw the small, two-lane road from which I had come that afternoon. That road continued on to the right, but I decided to head straight along a wandering dirt road.
I walked along the road slowly, savoring the warmth of the late-afternoon sun on my face and the smell of the dry leaves crunching under my worn boots. This was my favorite time of year. Things were slowing down, things were dying. No, not so much dying as simply changing. After all, death is a change. A real big change. One day you're living your life as expected, the next you're not. The fall is always slower, gives me time to think.
The dirt road eventually came out at Highway 3 and I turned left onto it. The highway wasn't very busy and I didn't have any luck getting a ride for awhile. The bag containing my belongings, two shirts, one sweater, a pair of pants, two packs of cigarettes and my journal, was just beginning to dig into my shoulder when a car pulled up. A young man peered out, decided I was all right, and opened the passenger side door.
"Where you headed?" He asked.
I thought for a moment, then said "Away."
The man gave me a quizzical look, then said "Alright, climb on in." I got into the dusty car and settled myself in.
We sat for about ten minutes in silence, his nervous, mine restful. I'm used to these first few minutes of silence when the driver tries to think up something witty or wise to say. I really don't enjoy talking to them too much, anyhow. They usually just end up thinking me crazy.
"Been on the road much?" He said finally.
"Since last winter."
"Why you out wandering?"
I had a reason, but I didn't feel like explaining it all to this man. Besides, I doubt that he would have really wanted to know anyway.
"Nope, just felt like going."
"Uh huh, sounds like fun."
His naiveté was amusing. Oh yeah, lots of fun. I really enjoyed not knowing where my next meal was coming from, where I was sleeping, whether I could make it through another day.
"Yeah, I really enjoy seeing the country."
I talked for about fifteen more minutes and then drifted off to sleep.
I woke up after sleeping for an hour or so. I told the man to let me off at the next town, which was only a few miles away. As the car came to a stop on the main street I thanked the man and shut the door behind me. Another person, another car, another small town.
II
It was about 8:30, so not too much was open. I walked down the town's main road. A group of high school kids drove by, laughing drunkenly. I listened to their voices as they drove off into the gloom, remembering a time when I had been as carefree as them, feeling as if I would never die.
Shaking my head, I walked into a tiny grocery store. I was the only customer, and an old man looked up from a book as I entered.
"G'evening, can I help you?"
Not unless you can fix the past.
"Maybe. Do you have any odd jobs that I could do?"
"I have some cans that need to be shelved, and I need to unload my truck. How much are you asking for?"
"I'll work for a bed and some food."
The man thought for a moment.
"All right, come on in back."
I worked at the jobs for some time. Manual labor was something I always enjoyed, especially the repetitive tasks that required little thought. This gave me a chance to let my mind wander. I tripped along the path in my mind, recalling events from long ago. Birthdays I'd had, baseball games played, snowballs thrown. As I moved to and from the dusty store room, stacking boxes in orderly piles, I thought of the events leading up to the eventual desertion of my home, my friends and my family.
I had always been a quiet person when I was younger, spent much of my time thinking. This was frowned upon of course. A boy who didn't enjoy playing with the other boys all the time just didn't seem normal. The people in my small town didn't think that I was perhaps shy, or just didn't enjoy the company of others. People began talking behind my mother's back about me, and then directly to her. This angered me the most, remembering the nights my mother spent crying because of what some housewife bitch said about her only son, a son who was a little different.
"Umm, son, I'd appreciate it if you just put the cans on the shelf without crushing them."
I looked down at my hand, which was holding a can of creamed corn. The corn juice was dripping out of the top and running down my arm.
"Sorry about that. I guess I just wasn't paying attention."
God damned temper. It was getting worse.
"Don't worry about it. Here, I'll finish these up. You go and get washed up for supper. Martha's so excited to have someone else to cook for."
I spent the rest of the evening talking with the man and his wife, absorbing the warmth from the wood stove. I hadn't felt this calm in months. Almost makes me forget. Almost. But I couldn't block it out, couldn't forget that night, that night when--
"...so we thought maybe you'd stay."
I realized the old man was talking to me.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."
The man's wife gave me a concerned look, the same motherly gaze I've encountered so many times before, and the same I left so many miles behind.
"We were just saying that, if you'd like, we could sure use an extra hand around the store and Martha wouldn't mind a new face to talk to."
A new start. I could settle in here, make myself a home. No, I'd ruin these people. Despite my every intention, I would demolish their lives, infect them with this pain that burns inside me. But to have a home, a warm bed, a familiar place!
"No, I'm sorry, I can't. Thank you very much though. It really means a lot to me. I don't find too many friendly faces anymore."
"Well, wish you could stay. You seem like a nice enough man."
That night, the searing anger, one word too many...
"Thanks again, but I will have to leave in the morning."
III
I arose early, about 5:00 a.m., and set out again. I took a hunk of cheese and left a five-dollar bill on the counter. I walked down the road in the early morning chill, listening to the crow of a rooster from a farm on the outskirts of town.
I watched a woman preparing breakfast for her husband. She moved gracefully as she set plates on the table, her long blond hair swaying gently with her movements. She reminded me of the one person I missed, the one person I truly loved. It still hurt, thinking of the last time I saw her. I had never gotten a chance to tell he everything, left so much unsaid...
"Logan, what's wrong? Why are you in such a hurry?"
Her eyes, a beautiful hazel color, looked at me in confusion. I could smell he hair even from where I stood. It was the most wonderful smell.
"I'm sorry, I don't have time to explain it now. I will be back, I swear to you. I don't know when, but I will return. I love you."
We kissed once, I grasped her hand in mine, I can still remember the softness of it, and then I left...
That was over a year ago. I know she is doing fine, she is too strong not to. Maybe she's forgotten me, moved on. But I would return.
I continued walking down the road, lost in the happy memories I shared with her. Memories of long walks in the fall, memories of nights spent together, breaking each other's curfew just to spend more time with each other. Memories of when we were still young, when our love was so new, so strange to each of us. A time before the trouble, when things were still sane.
I couldn't go on like this. I had to put an end to this madness. At the next town I bought a map and found my town. I had traveled over 1,000 miles, and now I had to go back. I had been running for too long. If I didn't stop now it would tear me up from the inside out.
I moved for five days non-stop, barely eating, never sleeping. I walked, jogged, rode and staggered the 1,239 miles to the outskirts of my town. I checked into a cheap motel and slept until the maid kicked me out the next evening. Rested, I turned towards the town I had run from over a year ago. As I walked down the empty street, watching my shadow grow and shrink in the streetlights, I cried.
The story Return is Copyright 1998 by Ben Elling.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright
1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush,
editor of The Young Writer's Collection.