Congratulations !
You have been awarded points.
Thank you for !
- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Ghost Stories / Paranormal
- Published: 02/03/2016
'The Suitcase'
A short story by Will Neill
For the first time in its history 'Millers Book Shop' was closed on a Saturday afternoon. If you didn’t know about it you would never find it. I guess dad liked it that way, some days we had so few customers I often wondered just how he managed to pay the rent. 'Don't worry so much Zach' he used to say, 'God will provide'. People would come and go, some browsed the shelves and others would just sit and read in the old easy chair over by the window. He loved nothing better than to stand at his counter and rub the dust off some old classics, such as 'Tom Sawyer' and Moby Dick. It was just his excuse of course, to have a good old chin wag with whoever may have been occupying the window seat. The conversation always depended on the book they were reading, and you could be sure he knew exactly what the content was. Maybe that’s why he loved them so much, and this place, books were his life.
I notice the rain starting; it runs down the window pane and gathers on the wooden sash that has long since lost its coat of paint. Every thing inside the shop seems to have lost its energy the shelves look brown and dirty and the walls a sickly off white. Except for the front door, every year at Christmas he gave it a fresh coat of festive ivy green. Inside above it hangs a little silver bell that tinkles when opened. I guess that job will be up to me this year.' ‘Some day this will all be yours' he would point, 'There is treasure on these racks Zach, and mysteries to solve.’ As I grew up he would read to me, acting out each scene with amplified vigor, be it Captain Ahab of the whaling ship Pequod, or Long John Sliver hopping around on one leg from Treasure Island, complete with broom for a crutch, He made each one special in his own way.
The easy chair hugs me like welcome arms while I sit in the dark and watch the rain get heavier. I wonder if a storm is coming. Slowly I begin to drift into an apprehensive dream. Unfamiliar images flood my mind, blurred pictures of a woman, crying and calling my name over and over. For a while when I was younger they haunted me, but as I grew older they faded, but recently have returned.
I had asked Dad about my Mother on many occasions but all he would say was 'She died giving you life son'.
Is this her in my dreams I wonder? The shop begins to feel cold; my sleep has left me heavy headed. And the threat of a storm seems to have amounted to nothing more than a blustery rain shower. From where I’m sitting I see a shadow approach, passing by the window, as it ambles along the glass it makes its shape flicker like an old black and white film. The silver bell tinkles as the door opens with a muted creak. It lets in the sound of the rain and the wind. 'Hello, is'a any one here?' the shadow asks. I recognize the voice. It's Toni Consello who owns the Italian restaurant next door. 'Ahh! Zachery my boy', he has seen me sitting, 'I am'a so sorry to hear about your father' he says in his Brooklyn twang. Before I can rise he leans into me and hugs my shoulders. His cheap cologne lingers in my nose longer than I would like, almost taking my breath away. 'I missed'a the funeral today Zach, I'm'a so sorry' but'a my wife she had'a go visit her Moth-'
'It's OKay' I interrupt, ‘I understand’. Toni is a big man, almost the same shape as the meatballs he serves with his ’’world a famous Manhattan spaghetti.'’ his hair is thin and limp with dampness.
'Really Toni, it’s OK'
Undeterred by my butt in he slips his big bear arm around my shoulder, 'Come' he says in a comforting voice 'I mak'a you my world'a Fam-'
Once more I cut him off; I have no appetite for any small talk or over zealous condolences. 'Can I take a rain check Toni?' I lie. He looks offended, but smiles anyway. It's then I ease him slowly to the door.
'What'a you gonna do now?'
I feel a sudden panic, I never thought this far ahead while dad was in hospital after his stroke. The constant visits and then funeral arrangements kept me busy.
'I, I, don't know' I reply, trailing off.
'You wanna come stay with me for while' he frowns, catching me off guard with his offer. 'Are you gonna keep the shop open Zach? Your Father would'a have a liked that.'
'Maybe, I don't know' is all I can think of saying to him, but his scowl get heavier as he cocked his head to the side, my doubts obviously perplexing him.
‘A vacation' I blurt out, killing the pregnant pause that has formed between us.
'What?'
‘I’m going on vacation, to see the Ocean' again he looks back at me silently confused.
'Oh, Okay that seems lik'a good idea, I'll see you when'a you get home’ he says as he steps out into the rain, and waves without looking back. 'Chio' he shouts over the wind, and when I close the door behind him I need to reach up to stop the bell from ringing; its sound hurts my memories.
Slowly the idea of getting away for awhile starts to appeal to me.
Dad was never one for vacations, he even hated shutting the shop at Christmas, the only day in the year it was ever closed - except for today of course. But I do remember he kept an old battered suitcase under his bed. But the thought of going into his room fills my stomach with a nervous emptiness. A small archway leads to the backstairs, and they smell of musty books and damp wood. Above my head a single bulb lights the landing and the stairs creak and move under my feet as I climb. When I reach the top I ponder on why I tiptoed when there’s no one else here, old habits die hard I suppose. In front of me the door is dirty white like trodden snow and the paint is cracked and peeling, much like the walls. On it a tainted brass knob lies crooked and loose, held on only by two rusty screws. My room faces his.
When I enter Toni's neon light flashes intermittent streaks of blue and red making the room seem to shudder. My refection shivers on the window pane, like a lonely ghost. I'm still wearing my best black suit and tie, the desire to change never crossed my mind until now. Even in the semi darkness I can see the outline of the suitcase under his bed. Nothing is different since he left; the bed covers are still twisted and turned. His pillow is on the floor from where the paramedic placed it under his head that morning with the indentation still clearly visible on it. I can't look, so I turn my eyes and focus on why I have come in. When I pull out the suitcase by its leather handle dust swirls drift up into the neon light then float aimlessly in the cold air, it feels heavy and something thud's inside it as I move to the door. By the time I get it downstairs my curiosity is working over time. It's smaller than I remember; and the counter provides a perfect place to indulge my curiosity. Carefully I brush away a coating of dust with my hand, and find to my amazement scorched into its leather upper are three faded initials, J.Z.M.
'John Zachery Miller' I whisper to myself. And as my voice fades into the room I swear I can hear a woman crying. A trick of the wind, of that I'm sure, but even so it raises goose bumps across my shoulders. I shrug them vigorously to dispel such thoughts and return to opening the case.
The two flip locks are black and tainted with age. Tenderly I ease them over left and right, and both click open effortlessly to my amazement. Around me my shallow breathing is interrupted only by the sound of the lid opening with a constricted groan to reveal a leather bound King James Bible. On it the gold inset lettering has long since faded with time and it feels cold and damp. Dad was never much for church but he did like to quote from it when the need arose, although I have never seen him with this.
Tenderly I begin to inspect it like an antique dealer, twisting, turning touching. It is impossible to know just how old it is. Maybe there is an inscription on the inside that may give me a clue. I open it carefully, and there was none other than a scribbled note in washy blue ink. This Book Belongs to…... The name is gone with passing years, but a partial address is still barely readable: 51 Howard St. San Francisco, California. Little doodles of stick men and flowers scatter the page, a child’s pencil drawings. There's no phone number. Yet as I think of throwing the book back into the case, something stops me. 'What were you doing with this Bible Dad' I whisper and 'Who did it belong to?' once more I look at it, making my curiosity more hungry. It's then I decide on my vacations destination...'Seems like I'm going to California', I hear myself whisper.
The following morning I wake early after a restless night, not because of the rain or wind that seemed to last for hours but the anticipation of my trip across the country. I could of course stay and forget about what I had found, but I know I can't. I need to put my mind at rest as to who owned the bible, be they living or dead. Dad's old 89' Ford is parked out in the street; it looks like how I feel, tired and rusty, somehow I don't think an eighteen year old car is going to make a three thousand mile road trip.
After checking the route I find out that the Greyhound bus company runs a cross country service that makes just a few overnight stops, Toni uses it all the time, so he says. ‘My wife' he shrugs over the phone 'Her'a Mama is nat'a so good, she maybe gonn'a die soon, know what'a I mean Zach, she lives just outside of Nortonville Kansas’. He tells me he knows some of the bus drivers, when I rang him I didn't mention the suitcase or book.
'Leave it'a to me Zach my boy, I mak'a some calls' an hour later he had my ticket booked and waiting.
The bible is just the right size to fit in my overcoat pocket and I’ve packed enough clothes for a four day trip. To be honest the suitcase couldn’t have held much more. Excitement and anticipation alleviates me out into the New York June sunshine, And I notice the air smells fresh and clean after last nights gales. Traffic is light on my street; the bus depot is across town, a half hour by yellow cab on a good day hopefully I should be there by noon.
The Port Authority bus terminal is buzzing when I arrive; people are rushing, talking, and laughing, in an ocean of bodies. When the taxi dropped me on the corner of 8th Avenue and West 42nd Street, media mesh is advertising Keanu Reeves in 'The Matrix Reloaded', on the side of the terminal wall and I check my watch against the digital clock below the billboard; it is five minutes after Midday. And by the time I collect my ticket and fight my way through the crowds my bus is already boarding. The 286 express to San Francisco is large and Silver, it looks like a spaceship from Star Wars. Pink and black graffiti is painted along its side that would remind you of a badly drawn tattoo. Behind the dirt encrusted glass mindless faces stare out at those who are still waiting to get on. I am the last in line.
The buses walk way is narrow and awkward, people stare as I move along. I pick the only window seat that's left, and place my suitcase on the one next to me. I would prefer to be alone for my trip, but moments after I sit an elderly woman makes her way towards my vacant seat. She is the epitome of any grandmother; no one looks at her as she sits beside me. Instantly I notice she smells of mothballs and lilac water; reluctantly I place my suitcase below my seat just as the engine vibrates into life, allowing her to sit. And as I feared it’s not long before she turns to me, fulfilling all of my anxieties.
'Are you traveling alone?' she whispers leaning into me, and the awkwardness I feel when she speaks hangs between us. I am unsure if I can make light conversation for the entire journey. Nor do I wish to, but I sense the need to be respectful, that is what Dad would have expected.
'Yes' I smile lightly 'I'm going to San Francisco California'
'Any particular reason?'
‘I’m hoping to return a bible to its owner.'
'My, My, that is a noble quest young man, do you know who owns it?'
'I'm afraid not, I found it in my Dad's suitcase, the one at my feet'
'And your father, He knows you're going, right?'
I feel my throat stiffen and become dry with her question. 'He's dead Ma'am, just a few days ago' is all I can muster as an answer. 'A Stroke.'
'Oh' she frowns genuinely, 'I'm so sorry to hear that.' I notice her blue gray hair catch a stray sunbeam through the buses window and it seems to light up like a halo. The wait for my lump to lessen seems to take ages, 'it's okay, thanks' I at last manage. She pat's my leg and adds a soft smile. suddenly I feel better.
'Please Ma'am' I ask, 'I don't know your name'
'Call me Nan, Zachery; everyone likes to call me that.'
For the next two hours we chat and laugh just like it used to be with dad. Our first scheduled stop is to be in Maryland at Odenton Marc Station, six hours from New York. 'Are you going to California Nan?' I ask her.
'Oh no' she say's quietly, 'Just as far as Arlington, I have a small place there' she replies, dropping her eyes. 'It's been so nice talking with you Zach'
'You remind me of my Father, Nan' I whisper.
'Why thank you Zachery Miller, I am so honored' she smiles.
With our small talk exhausted, slowly I settle myself into a daydream that moves into an antsy sleep, images in sepia and meshed polarized color float around in my lake of memories. Once again I see the outline of a blond haired crying woman, who is calling my name. And in the midst of my uneasy dream a strange voice begins to drift through me like an echo, 'Young Sir' it says and I feel someone touch my shoulder. slowly my eyes begin to focus. 'I'm sorry sir, we’ve stopped' the driver is gently shaking me awake. 'Nan?' he looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. ‘’Have you seen the old woman who was beside me?’’ She’s gone. But on the seat beside me the Bible sits open, inside its inner leaf I see some writing has been added below the old address - ‘To Zachery, love Nan, enjoy your Journey’.
This makes me smile; I close the pages and slip it back into my coat pocket.
Odenton Marc Train station is a small facility that comprises a ticket office and a car park. the bus terminal is situated just across the road and is set out in a similar design. We have an hours break before we continue on our journey. The restroom facility at the north end of the car park is less than attractive. it is an eighties remnant in a contemporary setting, and smells like it hasn’t been cleaned since then. is it any wonder most of the others have chosen to avoid it? Instead they drift off in little packs to seek their own diversions. I can’t be fastidious though, nature is calling. Inside the air is thick and heavy, there are two stalls each look like a doorway to hell. Screwed upon the wall above the wash basins is a mirror that is faded and cracked, pornographic graffiti is smeared onto every clear space on the lime green walls and stall doors. I begin to wonder whether I have chosen wisely. just as I contemplate that thought the wind slams the door shut behind me with a bang. The shock stuns me ridged and for the next half hour I shout myself hoarse trying to draw attention, but I soon realize I'm too far away from the bus for anybody to hear me, and unless someone thinks about using this shit hole any way soon I'm stuck here. Slowly I watch my time ebb away.
Luckily I had the sense to bring my suitcase with me. However the thought of eating inside this restroom fills me with a dry gag, but I'm hungry and I'm sure by now the bus has departed, and what little daylight I enjoyed from the small barred window has now faded to gray. Two hours have gone, along with my hope. The night moves in slowly, my only comfort I have to pass the time is the little bible in the suitcase. I can only hope that the light from my cell phone holds out till morning. I may as well use it for some spiritual enlightenment considering there is no signal.
The battery dies at 4.30am, along with my will to stay awake.
As the dawn cradles the last of night I wake from a dreamless sleep with a neck ache from using my suitcase as a pillow. At first glance in the thin light I'm not sure what exactly it is I'm seeing, but standing at one of the urinals a stout man with a red checkered shirt under a sleeveless blue windbreaker jacket is staring at me as I rub the sleep from my eye's expecting him to be gone before I focus again. but he's still there, his New York baseball cap has been moved further back onto his balding head. He reminds me of Homer Simpson and I half expect him to do his silly cartoon laugh.
'Are you Okay son?' is all he asks in a soft Kentucky drawl.
'How, How- did, you get in here?'
I watch the big guy pull a frown as if I've asked him some really stupid question.
'Why thro the dawr of course' he laughs 'Let ole Blue help you up on yoh feet boy, my! oh my! what a dumb question' he laughs, then he sticks out the biggest arm I have ever seen on any man. My legs take their time to catch up with my brain as he pulls me up, they feel stiff and sore but I manage to stay steady.
'But it was locked tight, the, the, door-it-it-' I point at the opening gawking like a demented penguin. 'It Slammed shut’, the result of which only makes him laugh even louder.
'You need to beef yorself up boy, awl it needed was a good pushin.'
Suddenly I feel about 2 feet tall.
'You look like you could use some coffee Kid, I got me a hot flask in my Semi's cab, and it’s just outside, come-on' he grins and when I follow him out into the morning sunshine he's so big his shadow envelopes me.
'How come I didn’t hear you pull into the car park just then, Mr. Blue'?
'Just Blue kid' he states back at me without looking, 'I ain’t no Mister, an I's bin here all night, parked up round 1 A.M or so'. his revelation rocks me to a stand still and leaves me jaw struck, 'Where you headin to anyways kid?' he asks.
'I ain't no kid' I call back as I stumble behind him, 'Zachery Miller is my name, or Zach which ever you prefer.'
His belly laugh at my bravado sends a feeding bird into flight and echoes round the empty park. 'Well Zach it's good to meet ya!' he bellow's with a smile. once more he sticks out the largest hand I've ever seen, and his grip feels as if he's crushed my fingers while he shakes my arm like a wet rope. His semi truck is well suited to his size, totally chrome except for the 18 black tires and blood red livery on its side. the morning sunlight seems to create an aurora around it, making it so bright it hurts my eyes.
'What do you haul Blue?' I ask him as we reach the cab.
'Oh! just' bout anythin Zach, got me a load a car parts on this drayage, pushing all the way close to Tonopah Nevada, long haul yes sir!'
'Isn't that close to San Francisco?'
'umph!, I suppose so, is that where your headin Zach?'
I show him the bible and explain my story about how I aim to return it to whoever lives at the address.
The coffee we drink together is more than adequate to bring me a much needed perk up. When I'd finished all I had to say about my quest he slid off his baseball cap and wiped his head with his big bear paw like, 'Hop aboard kid, I'll take you as far as Tonopah If that’s suits. 'I look at him sideways and he holler's out another big laugh, ‘sorry, I mean Zach.'
For the next day and a half we cruise across country, passing through Ohio, Illinois, Iowa and Nebraska. He never seems to sleep. we talk and laugh and only stop for toilet breaks, and supplies. We touch on Wyoming and scout Utah. Blue's big ole Silver semi seems to glide along the highway. The engine is so quiet you would swear it wasn't running. ‘Don’t you ever need to get gas Blue?' I asked him once when we stopped briefly at a station. 'Filled her up fore I left Zach, besides she run's smoother on love and will power' he tap's the side of his nose and lets rip with another belly laugh, 'You get mah drift.'
By early evening we have reached Tonopah city limits. Blue swings his truck alongside a rest room that’s behind a sparse gas station. The tires crunch into the loose gravel and the hiss of air brakes brings us to a shuddering halt. Blue's face no longer has his oversized grin on it, his mood feels plaintive.
'This is as far as I go Zach' he whispers with a nod. ‘We’re at the end of the road buddy.'
'I'm gonna miss you Blue' I say with a heavy heart.
'Likewise' he replies. ‘You take care of yorself naw ye hear.'
I expect him to stick out his spade sized hand but he leans into me and gives me a back slapping bear hug that takes my breath away. I feel a salty tear force its way into my eye. I grab my suitcase and coat from behind my seat and climb down from the foot plate. 'Tonopah is 'bout two miles that way' he points. ‘It’s bin good beein with ya Zach, and I hope yoh find yoh way.’
I lift my hand to wave but I leave it hanging in the air as his truck speeds away, his bellowing laughs echoing into the sunset. The silence he leaves is spacious. A light rain begins to drift in as I make my way to town. the road is straight and even, a two lane black top that seems to sever the horizon. And by the time I get to the main square the streets lights are on and are reflecting yellow light upwards from the wet gullies. Car's hiss by on the wet road, not many, Tonopah is a small town. So my main thought is to get a bed for the night and change out of my wet clothes. A few neon lights flicker along my route advertising a drug store, a bank, restaurants and coffee shops. Typical of any small town in America, none seem to point to any hotels. Tired and wet I sit down on my suitcase and close my eyes briefly. The hypnotic sound of the rain and passing traffic sends my mind off into a trance. in my chest I can feel my heart beating, and my breathing becomes shallow and slow. Then the intrusion into my head that comes is frighteningly clear, the face of the blond woman, her eyes wide and crying, is so vivid. She screams my name and jolts me back into reality.
'Jesus Christ!' I hear myself shout, the shock of my instant incubus makes me fall from my temporary seat onto the wet sidewalk, and the bible tumbles from my pocket and follows me there. For a moment I lay and watch as the night wind blows and flicks the pages, rain drops strike and stain the paper. Slowly they stop until two pages are left flapping like dove wings. The rain washes over my face and blurs my vision yet one line seems to stand out, raised up by the dampness.
Revelation 21:22 - "And I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it." slowly I begin to understand. ‘A church' I whisper 'Of course, I can find help there.'
Thankfully a passer by gives me directions to the only place in town that’s open at this late hour. St Gabriel’s Catholic chapel sits lost behind a newly built two story office block and shop fronts, just four blocks from where I was sitting. The only thing visible from the road is its spire. By the time I reach its main door the rain has gotten heavier. But a welcome mellow light from inside spews onto the three cracked steps leading up to the stained glass door. it throws an inverted mosaic picture of the crucifixion at my feet.
The heavy oak door creaks and groans granting me access. Inside four massive stone pillars support an impressive lattice teak ceiling. I can smell the coldness of the marble mosaic below my feet, above my head four ornate crystal chandeliers sway lightly in the mild air. Contentment bathes my body, making me feel safe, and dry. I choose the fifth pew on the right; the old wood feels warm below me as I slip into it. Once more my eyes feel heavy, but I am reluctant to sleep. As time passes the silence creeps over me and images of Dad standing in the book shop, talking, laughing, filter into my thinking, then Nan, Blue and the Blond woman who is calling my name. I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts I do not hear the door open, then a gentle voice from behind me echoes round the chapel.
'Are you waiting for the priest?' an old gentleman asks me with a smile. 'It's just that he won't be back till morning, one of the parishioners is very sick, he may be dying and Father Luke has gone to see him'
'No' I reply 'I just came in to rest from the rain'
'Oh!
'That’s not a problem is it?'
'No young sir, this is the house of God - all are welcome' he says as He ambles towards me; it's then I notice his walking stick and the distinct bow of his right leg. Each step he takes displays pain upon his saddle bag face and the clack of his cane echoes around the chapel.
'You're not from round here are you?' he asks.
'No sir, New York'
'What has you so far from home young man?'
'It's a long story' I answer. Suddenly I feel the tiredness again inside me.
'Well' he smiles. I can see he has three teeth missing. 'It's still raining hard outside, and I have no where else to be for a while. let's say we have a good old talk and you tell me where you're coming from and going to.' He leans onto his cane and puts out his left hand for me to shake; his grip is limp and cold.
'Zachery Miller, nice to meet you sir'
'That’s a fine biblical name young man' he answers, 'Just you call me Aaron, Zachery Miller'
For the next hour as a storm rages outside I tell him my story of the bible and my journey so far, I explain how I wish to return the book to its owner, about my dad, the shop in New York and the people I've met. He listens intently only interrupting to ask me to repeat things he may have missed due to -''My bad hearing''
‘It’s a noble quest Zachery' he says as I finish 'But what if the person who owns the bible no longer lives there?' I look at him stunned, this thought never crossed my mind, but for some strange reason I am sure that someone will be there. Maybe because of the visions I have been having, the Blond woman calling my name and lately an image of a black wrought iron gateway and a drive inset of tall fir trees lining each side up to a white house with a brown shingle roof.
‘I must continue on Aaron, I've come too far to stop now, besides this journey has helped me in more ways than I could have imagined, if it fails then so be it'
For a moment I feel my shoulders drop. what if he's right? What if no one lives there any more, have I wasted my time with a futile pursuit?
'Are you Okay Zach?' he asks. maybe I think he see's the seed of doubt forming inside me, could it be that obvious.
'Look, I have an idea Zach, my car is parked outside, why don’t you take it and finish your journey, it would be my pleasure.'
'I'm sorry Aaron I can't do that, you hardly know me, it's not right.'
He shakes his head and smacks his lips in irritation. ‘Now you look here Zachery Miller, you are a good boy, you take these keys and lets be no more said about it'
'But how will you get back?' I ask him
'Don't you worry about that or me, when Father Luke comes he'll see that I get home just fine'
Suddenly the excitement is full in me again. 'Only if you're sure, Aaron'
‘You hurry along now son,’ he smiles ‘’the storm has eased and it's nearly dawn, go and get that Bible back to where it belongs, now get, it’s the Green Buick.'
I gather my suitcase and put the bible back into my coat pocket. Aaron watches me as I walk to the door. he leans onto his cane once more and raises his left hand, 'You take care now Zachery Miller'. The pull on my heart feels the same as when my Father died, yet I only met this man a few hours ago. ‘Goodbye Aaron! It’s been a pleasure knowing you, and don’t worry, I'll bring your car back' I shout at him, my voice echoes around the church. when I look back he's gone.
Sure enough just outside sits a 1955 Buick Super, its chrome bumpers shining in the dawn light.
Its body work is in perfect condition. ‘Old man, old car, seems about right I guess' - it’s not locked. Inside the upholstery smells of new leather, there's a tincture of iodine, a roll on lip balm stick and a tube of skin cream on the passenger seat. Used paper tissues are stuffed into the ashtray and a large floral duck egg booster cushion is on the drivers. The ignition key (complete with white rabbit’s foot hanging from the rear view mirror) slips easily in, and with little effort the engine settles into a soft purr. It’s been years since I drove a stick shift but after a few stalls I manage to get moving. gradually I begin to fall into an uneasy confidence.
I turn onto US 95 and head west out of town. in the light of day the Grey stone buildings look clean and bright. Old pioneer remnants and new structures mix together, overseen by mild mountain peaks barely visible above the city roof tops. About 45 minutes later I'm cruising along the Alpine State Highway towards California. After a few miles I stop for gas in Fallon, and head on to Reno. the old Buick takes the road effortlessly. People stop and stare at this rare automobile passing, some wave at me, others just point. Either way I savor my notoriety.
On through Truckee, Auburn and Roseville, onto Sacramento’s Lincoln Highway that takes me to Vacaville, a typical small American town. The main street is narrow with bustling shops and people standing, talking, and enjoying the afternoon sunshine. The light is beginning to fade as I pass into Vallejo, Richmond, then Berkeley - across the busy golden gate bridge and finally into San Francisco. A slight left in to Lombard Street takes me onto Van Ness Avenue. According to the directions I get from a friendly cop I'm less than a mile from my destination. He draws me a pencil map on a scrap piece of paper, its shows me heading through Jones Street then on to 5th Street.
It's about 8.45pm when I finally turn into Howard street, I begin to count the House numbers as I drive slowly along, 36, then 40, 45 to 50. then I see it fade into view just like in my dream, a black iron gate with tall fir trees each side of the drive leading up to a white house with a brown shingle roof. The sight makes my mouth go dry as I pull the Buick to the side and Park. Gooseflesh rises on my neck and arms as I approach the gate. for a moment I hesitate, what if no one answers when I ring the intercom? Should I just leave now and forget about everything? In that moment of indecision I remember what Nan wrote in the Bible, what Blue did for me, and Aaron who got me to this point. I cannot turn back - not now. I push the silver button and wait. It makes a muted beeping sound for what seems forever. Slowly I feel my shoulders drop with disappointment - it seems no one is home. have I failed, I wonder. Then just as I turn to leave a saintly woman’s voice comes over the speaker.
‘Hello! who's there?'.
I lean in closer to the speaker. 'Hi my name is Zachery Miller and I have come to return a bible I found in a suitcase in my Fathers book shop, this is the address that was inside.' Endless moments pass and the silence is so long I think maybe she has gone. Only static pours out of the intercom. Once again I think about leaving, but a voice then crackles through the static. 'You had better come up to the house’ the woman says. then the gate lock clicks, it opens slightly. Drive way lights come on just as I step in; they throw a mellow white glow onto the gravel path tenuously illuminating the tall fir trees. I feel the loose stones move and crunch under my feet, with each step I get more and more anxious of what may happen. Seconds pass and then I'm at the door. for a brief moment I check myself, flatten my hair and tuck my shirt into my jeans. But before I can finish it opens. what I see next takes the power out of my legs. Standing in the hallway light is the same blond woman who has been in my dreams calling to me, when she speaks I know it’s her. ‘Please come in John' she gestures.
I try to correct her name error as we walk along a short dimly lit corridor. 'I'm afraid you must be mistaken ma'am, my fathers name was John, but I think I said I was Zachery.' Annoyingly she pays no heed to my excursive talking, instead she leads me into a room where a large brown leather couch sits midway between an open fire and a spacious dining area. She points to an adjacent chair. 'Please sit' she gestures. 'would you like something to drink?' 'No-thank you' I decline. My eyes begin to scan the room; I notice a photograph in a gold frame sitting on a coffee table. Five people stand together, smiling, holding a baby; the more I stare the more I cannot believe what I am seeing.
Slowly I raise myself up from my seat and move closer, gradually their faces become clearer. I look to it, then to her, and then back to the photograph. She smiles at me and nods.
'I, I, I-, know these people' I stammer. ‘But how cou-' my mind is racing, looking back at me is my Father, the Blonde woman who is sitting with me, Nan beside Blue with his baseball hat, and old Aaron with his crooked leg and cane. behind them is a green Buick car. The same one I just arrived in.
'Who are you?' I finally muster.
‘I think you know who I am John, -- I am your mother'
‘But you're supposed to be dead' I protest. 'Father told me you died giving birth to me.'
'Is that what he said to you?' she looks at me and places her hands in her lap. I watch them move nervously as we talk. ‘The truth is he took you away from me' she says. I can see tears form in her eyes as she remembers the past. Somewhere in my head I want to think she is lying to me, but I am compelled to listen. I want to hear her story.
'Father called you Beth'
she smiles and nod's. ‘He never liked to be formal, your Dad. It's Elisabeth Rose Miller'
‘He never showed me any pictures of you, why?'
‘We argued a lot after you were born'
I move from my seat over to the photograph, she watches as I lift it up and touch the glass.
‘He always had this dream of opening a book shop in New York, it was a fanciful idea to me, we had a new baby - you, and money was tight. For the first few years I thought he had given up on the idea, but he became restless, the arguments resumed. When you were three he said he wanted to go visit his mother and would it be Okay to take you along. I had no reason to refuse'
I point at the old lady in the photograph 'This is Nan; I met her on the Bus from New York'
'Yes, that’s your Grand Mother John, she's the one who must have given you the bible when you and your dad visited her. there is no way you could have met her on the bus, she died two years after you both disappeared. You see, she has been buried up in Arlington since then.'
‘And what about Blue?'
‘That’s your Uncle Bobby, my brother, everyone called him Blue. He drove a big Ole Silver truck across country; he loved you like a son but he burned to death in his cab after he lost control and crashed into a gas station just outside of Tonapah. they said he was avoiding some kid who had ran onto the highway while his mother filled up her car'
Suddenly I feel sick. ‘I traveled with him, I rode in his truck’ I heard myself stammer, but I could see she was looking at me as if I was delusional. ‘Blue and I searched for you both for years’ she answered, rising. ‘your Father never got in touch with us since the day you left, and we never knew where you were. We tried everything. It seems like he found his dream after all, how is he?'
‘He’s dead' her eyes close at my clinical revelation. 'Took a stroke two weeks ago.' her head turns into herself and I see the pain surface. ‘I’m so sorry.' The silence between us hangs in the air. I can understand now that she did love him, and me, but his dream was bigger than everything.
'And Aaron?' I reluctantly point back to the photograph, 'How do you explain the Buick?'
'Aaron was my Father. he broke his heart when John took you away, just last night Father Luke rushed to the old peoples home where he resided close to St Gabriel Chapel. Aaron passed away peacefully in his sleep; I got the call this morning. He always swore you would come back some day, he promised he would hold on to the Buick until you did return. seems like he got to keep his word'
‘But what has happened is impossible, how can-' she cuts me short.
'Who are we to try and understand the power of love, there are more things in heaven and earth than we can ever comprehend. be thankful John Zachery Miller that they loved you enough to guide you safely home.'
I slump back into my chair and shake my head silently in a bemused agreement, 'I guess!'
'Give me your Bible John' she says to me, 'I want to show you something'.
I take it from my pocket and hand it to her, she opens it up to its back, slowly she peels away the linen cover, threads snap. Secreted behind is a small photograph, a copy of the same one that’s in the frame.
‘How, how, did you know it was there?'
'Nan sewed it into your bible just after you were born, she was making sure you were always never far away from your family.'
For the first time, in a long time, I feel emotions rise inside me. I cannot hold back the tears, the tears for the loss of my dad, and for Nan, Blue, Aaron and finally meeting my Mother. I want to hold her, feel her love, her arms around me. Slowly she moves and we caress, I can smell her, memories of a childhood flood back in a torrent of feelings. We part still holding hands and sobbing together.
'What, what, now John Zachery Miller?' she asks me.
‘Maybe’ I smile, ‘may-bee! I'll open a book shop in San Francisco. what do you think, Mom?'
Will Neill. 2010
'The Suitcase'(Will Neill)
'The Suitcase'
A short story by Will Neill
For the first time in its history 'Millers Book Shop' was closed on a Saturday afternoon. If you didn’t know about it you would never find it. I guess dad liked it that way, some days we had so few customers I often wondered just how he managed to pay the rent. 'Don't worry so much Zach' he used to say, 'God will provide'. People would come and go, some browsed the shelves and others would just sit and read in the old easy chair over by the window. He loved nothing better than to stand at his counter and rub the dust off some old classics, such as 'Tom Sawyer' and Moby Dick. It was just his excuse of course, to have a good old chin wag with whoever may have been occupying the window seat. The conversation always depended on the book they were reading, and you could be sure he knew exactly what the content was. Maybe that’s why he loved them so much, and this place, books were his life.
I notice the rain starting; it runs down the window pane and gathers on the wooden sash that has long since lost its coat of paint. Every thing inside the shop seems to have lost its energy the shelves look brown and dirty and the walls a sickly off white. Except for the front door, every year at Christmas he gave it a fresh coat of festive ivy green. Inside above it hangs a little silver bell that tinkles when opened. I guess that job will be up to me this year.' ‘Some day this will all be yours' he would point, 'There is treasure on these racks Zach, and mysteries to solve.’ As I grew up he would read to me, acting out each scene with amplified vigor, be it Captain Ahab of the whaling ship Pequod, or Long John Sliver hopping around on one leg from Treasure Island, complete with broom for a crutch, He made each one special in his own way.
The easy chair hugs me like welcome arms while I sit in the dark and watch the rain get heavier. I wonder if a storm is coming. Slowly I begin to drift into an apprehensive dream. Unfamiliar images flood my mind, blurred pictures of a woman, crying and calling my name over and over. For a while when I was younger they haunted me, but as I grew older they faded, but recently have returned.
I had asked Dad about my Mother on many occasions but all he would say was 'She died giving you life son'.
Is this her in my dreams I wonder? The shop begins to feel cold; my sleep has left me heavy headed. And the threat of a storm seems to have amounted to nothing more than a blustery rain shower. From where I’m sitting I see a shadow approach, passing by the window, as it ambles along the glass it makes its shape flicker like an old black and white film. The silver bell tinkles as the door opens with a muted creak. It lets in the sound of the rain and the wind. 'Hello, is'a any one here?' the shadow asks. I recognize the voice. It's Toni Consello who owns the Italian restaurant next door. 'Ahh! Zachery my boy', he has seen me sitting, 'I am'a so sorry to hear about your father' he says in his Brooklyn twang. Before I can rise he leans into me and hugs my shoulders. His cheap cologne lingers in my nose longer than I would like, almost taking my breath away. 'I missed'a the funeral today Zach, I'm'a so sorry' but'a my wife she had'a go visit her Moth-'
'It's OKay' I interrupt, ‘I understand’. Toni is a big man, almost the same shape as the meatballs he serves with his ’’world a famous Manhattan spaghetti.'’ his hair is thin and limp with dampness.
'Really Toni, it’s OK'
Undeterred by my butt in he slips his big bear arm around my shoulder, 'Come' he says in a comforting voice 'I mak'a you my world'a Fam-'
Once more I cut him off; I have no appetite for any small talk or over zealous condolences. 'Can I take a rain check Toni?' I lie. He looks offended, but smiles anyway. It's then I ease him slowly to the door.
'What'a you gonna do now?'
I feel a sudden panic, I never thought this far ahead while dad was in hospital after his stroke. The constant visits and then funeral arrangements kept me busy.
'I, I, don't know' I reply, trailing off.
'You wanna come stay with me for while' he frowns, catching me off guard with his offer. 'Are you gonna keep the shop open Zach? Your Father would'a have a liked that.'
'Maybe, I don't know' is all I can think of saying to him, but his scowl get heavier as he cocked his head to the side, my doubts obviously perplexing him.
‘A vacation' I blurt out, killing the pregnant pause that has formed between us.
'What?'
‘I’m going on vacation, to see the Ocean' again he looks back at me silently confused.
'Oh, Okay that seems lik'a good idea, I'll see you when'a you get home’ he says as he steps out into the rain, and waves without looking back. 'Chio' he shouts over the wind, and when I close the door behind him I need to reach up to stop the bell from ringing; its sound hurts my memories.
Slowly the idea of getting away for awhile starts to appeal to me.
Dad was never one for vacations, he even hated shutting the shop at Christmas, the only day in the year it was ever closed - except for today of course. But I do remember he kept an old battered suitcase under his bed. But the thought of going into his room fills my stomach with a nervous emptiness. A small archway leads to the backstairs, and they smell of musty books and damp wood. Above my head a single bulb lights the landing and the stairs creak and move under my feet as I climb. When I reach the top I ponder on why I tiptoed when there’s no one else here, old habits die hard I suppose. In front of me the door is dirty white like trodden snow and the paint is cracked and peeling, much like the walls. On it a tainted brass knob lies crooked and loose, held on only by two rusty screws. My room faces his.
When I enter Toni's neon light flashes intermittent streaks of blue and red making the room seem to shudder. My refection shivers on the window pane, like a lonely ghost. I'm still wearing my best black suit and tie, the desire to change never crossed my mind until now. Even in the semi darkness I can see the outline of the suitcase under his bed. Nothing is different since he left; the bed covers are still twisted and turned. His pillow is on the floor from where the paramedic placed it under his head that morning with the indentation still clearly visible on it. I can't look, so I turn my eyes and focus on why I have come in. When I pull out the suitcase by its leather handle dust swirls drift up into the neon light then float aimlessly in the cold air, it feels heavy and something thud's inside it as I move to the door. By the time I get it downstairs my curiosity is working over time. It's smaller than I remember; and the counter provides a perfect place to indulge my curiosity. Carefully I brush away a coating of dust with my hand, and find to my amazement scorched into its leather upper are three faded initials, J.Z.M.
'John Zachery Miller' I whisper to myself. And as my voice fades into the room I swear I can hear a woman crying. A trick of the wind, of that I'm sure, but even so it raises goose bumps across my shoulders. I shrug them vigorously to dispel such thoughts and return to opening the case.
The two flip locks are black and tainted with age. Tenderly I ease them over left and right, and both click open effortlessly to my amazement. Around me my shallow breathing is interrupted only by the sound of the lid opening with a constricted groan to reveal a leather bound King James Bible. On it the gold inset lettering has long since faded with time and it feels cold and damp. Dad was never much for church but he did like to quote from it when the need arose, although I have never seen him with this.
Tenderly I begin to inspect it like an antique dealer, twisting, turning touching. It is impossible to know just how old it is. Maybe there is an inscription on the inside that may give me a clue. I open it carefully, and there was none other than a scribbled note in washy blue ink. This Book Belongs to…... The name is gone with passing years, but a partial address is still barely readable: 51 Howard St. San Francisco, California. Little doodles of stick men and flowers scatter the page, a child’s pencil drawings. There's no phone number. Yet as I think of throwing the book back into the case, something stops me. 'What were you doing with this Bible Dad' I whisper and 'Who did it belong to?' once more I look at it, making my curiosity more hungry. It's then I decide on my vacations destination...'Seems like I'm going to California', I hear myself whisper.
The following morning I wake early after a restless night, not because of the rain or wind that seemed to last for hours but the anticipation of my trip across the country. I could of course stay and forget about what I had found, but I know I can't. I need to put my mind at rest as to who owned the bible, be they living or dead. Dad's old 89' Ford is parked out in the street; it looks like how I feel, tired and rusty, somehow I don't think an eighteen year old car is going to make a three thousand mile road trip.
After checking the route I find out that the Greyhound bus company runs a cross country service that makes just a few overnight stops, Toni uses it all the time, so he says. ‘My wife' he shrugs over the phone 'Her'a Mama is nat'a so good, she maybe gonn'a die soon, know what'a I mean Zach, she lives just outside of Nortonville Kansas’. He tells me he knows some of the bus drivers, when I rang him I didn't mention the suitcase or book.
'Leave it'a to me Zach my boy, I mak'a some calls' an hour later he had my ticket booked and waiting.
The bible is just the right size to fit in my overcoat pocket and I’ve packed enough clothes for a four day trip. To be honest the suitcase couldn’t have held much more. Excitement and anticipation alleviates me out into the New York June sunshine, And I notice the air smells fresh and clean after last nights gales. Traffic is light on my street; the bus depot is across town, a half hour by yellow cab on a good day hopefully I should be there by noon.
The Port Authority bus terminal is buzzing when I arrive; people are rushing, talking, and laughing, in an ocean of bodies. When the taxi dropped me on the corner of 8th Avenue and West 42nd Street, media mesh is advertising Keanu Reeves in 'The Matrix Reloaded', on the side of the terminal wall and I check my watch against the digital clock below the billboard; it is five minutes after Midday. And by the time I collect my ticket and fight my way through the crowds my bus is already boarding. The 286 express to San Francisco is large and Silver, it looks like a spaceship from Star Wars. Pink and black graffiti is painted along its side that would remind you of a badly drawn tattoo. Behind the dirt encrusted glass mindless faces stare out at those who are still waiting to get on. I am the last in line.
The buses walk way is narrow and awkward, people stare as I move along. I pick the only window seat that's left, and place my suitcase on the one next to me. I would prefer to be alone for my trip, but moments after I sit an elderly woman makes her way towards my vacant seat. She is the epitome of any grandmother; no one looks at her as she sits beside me. Instantly I notice she smells of mothballs and lilac water; reluctantly I place my suitcase below my seat just as the engine vibrates into life, allowing her to sit. And as I feared it’s not long before she turns to me, fulfilling all of my anxieties.
'Are you traveling alone?' she whispers leaning into me, and the awkwardness I feel when she speaks hangs between us. I am unsure if I can make light conversation for the entire journey. Nor do I wish to, but I sense the need to be respectful, that is what Dad would have expected.
'Yes' I smile lightly 'I'm going to San Francisco California'
'Any particular reason?'
‘I’m hoping to return a bible to its owner.'
'My, My, that is a noble quest young man, do you know who owns it?'
'I'm afraid not, I found it in my Dad's suitcase, the one at my feet'
'And your father, He knows you're going, right?'
I feel my throat stiffen and become dry with her question. 'He's dead Ma'am, just a few days ago' is all I can muster as an answer. 'A Stroke.'
'Oh' she frowns genuinely, 'I'm so sorry to hear that.' I notice her blue gray hair catch a stray sunbeam through the buses window and it seems to light up like a halo. The wait for my lump to lessen seems to take ages, 'it's okay, thanks' I at last manage. She pat's my leg and adds a soft smile. suddenly I feel better.
'Please Ma'am' I ask, 'I don't know your name'
'Call me Nan, Zachery; everyone likes to call me that.'
For the next two hours we chat and laugh just like it used to be with dad. Our first scheduled stop is to be in Maryland at Odenton Marc Station, six hours from New York. 'Are you going to California Nan?' I ask her.
'Oh no' she say's quietly, 'Just as far as Arlington, I have a small place there' she replies, dropping her eyes. 'It's been so nice talking with you Zach'
'You remind me of my Father, Nan' I whisper.
'Why thank you Zachery Miller, I am so honored' she smiles.
With our small talk exhausted, slowly I settle myself into a daydream that moves into an antsy sleep, images in sepia and meshed polarized color float around in my lake of memories. Once again I see the outline of a blond haired crying woman, who is calling my name. And in the midst of my uneasy dream a strange voice begins to drift through me like an echo, 'Young Sir' it says and I feel someone touch my shoulder. slowly my eyes begin to focus. 'I'm sorry sir, we’ve stopped' the driver is gently shaking me awake. 'Nan?' he looks at me and shrugs his shoulders. ‘’Have you seen the old woman who was beside me?’’ She’s gone. But on the seat beside me the Bible sits open, inside its inner leaf I see some writing has been added below the old address - ‘To Zachery, love Nan, enjoy your Journey’.
This makes me smile; I close the pages and slip it back into my coat pocket.
Odenton Marc Train station is a small facility that comprises a ticket office and a car park. the bus terminal is situated just across the road and is set out in a similar design. We have an hours break before we continue on our journey. The restroom facility at the north end of the car park is less than attractive. it is an eighties remnant in a contemporary setting, and smells like it hasn’t been cleaned since then. is it any wonder most of the others have chosen to avoid it? Instead they drift off in little packs to seek their own diversions. I can’t be fastidious though, nature is calling. Inside the air is thick and heavy, there are two stalls each look like a doorway to hell. Screwed upon the wall above the wash basins is a mirror that is faded and cracked, pornographic graffiti is smeared onto every clear space on the lime green walls and stall doors. I begin to wonder whether I have chosen wisely. just as I contemplate that thought the wind slams the door shut behind me with a bang. The shock stuns me ridged and for the next half hour I shout myself hoarse trying to draw attention, but I soon realize I'm too far away from the bus for anybody to hear me, and unless someone thinks about using this shit hole any way soon I'm stuck here. Slowly I watch my time ebb away.
Luckily I had the sense to bring my suitcase with me. However the thought of eating inside this restroom fills me with a dry gag, but I'm hungry and I'm sure by now the bus has departed, and what little daylight I enjoyed from the small barred window has now faded to gray. Two hours have gone, along with my hope. The night moves in slowly, my only comfort I have to pass the time is the little bible in the suitcase. I can only hope that the light from my cell phone holds out till morning. I may as well use it for some spiritual enlightenment considering there is no signal.
The battery dies at 4.30am, along with my will to stay awake.
As the dawn cradles the last of night I wake from a dreamless sleep with a neck ache from using my suitcase as a pillow. At first glance in the thin light I'm not sure what exactly it is I'm seeing, but standing at one of the urinals a stout man with a red checkered shirt under a sleeveless blue windbreaker jacket is staring at me as I rub the sleep from my eye's expecting him to be gone before I focus again. but he's still there, his New York baseball cap has been moved further back onto his balding head. He reminds me of Homer Simpson and I half expect him to do his silly cartoon laugh.
'Are you Okay son?' is all he asks in a soft Kentucky drawl.
'How, How- did, you get in here?'
I watch the big guy pull a frown as if I've asked him some really stupid question.
'Why thro the dawr of course' he laughs 'Let ole Blue help you up on yoh feet boy, my! oh my! what a dumb question' he laughs, then he sticks out the biggest arm I have ever seen on any man. My legs take their time to catch up with my brain as he pulls me up, they feel stiff and sore but I manage to stay steady.
'But it was locked tight, the, the, door-it-it-' I point at the opening gawking like a demented penguin. 'It Slammed shut’, the result of which only makes him laugh even louder.
'You need to beef yorself up boy, awl it needed was a good pushin.'
Suddenly I feel about 2 feet tall.
'You look like you could use some coffee Kid, I got me a hot flask in my Semi's cab, and it’s just outside, come-on' he grins and when I follow him out into the morning sunshine he's so big his shadow envelopes me.
'How come I didn’t hear you pull into the car park just then, Mr. Blue'?
'Just Blue kid' he states back at me without looking, 'I ain’t no Mister, an I's bin here all night, parked up round 1 A.M or so'. his revelation rocks me to a stand still and leaves me jaw struck, 'Where you headin to anyways kid?' he asks.
'I ain't no kid' I call back as I stumble behind him, 'Zachery Miller is my name, or Zach which ever you prefer.'
His belly laugh at my bravado sends a feeding bird into flight and echoes round the empty park. 'Well Zach it's good to meet ya!' he bellow's with a smile. once more he sticks out the largest hand I've ever seen, and his grip feels as if he's crushed my fingers while he shakes my arm like a wet rope. His semi truck is well suited to his size, totally chrome except for the 18 black tires and blood red livery on its side. the morning sunlight seems to create an aurora around it, making it so bright it hurts my eyes.
'What do you haul Blue?' I ask him as we reach the cab.
'Oh! just' bout anythin Zach, got me a load a car parts on this drayage, pushing all the way close to Tonopah Nevada, long haul yes sir!'
'Isn't that close to San Francisco?'
'umph!, I suppose so, is that where your headin Zach?'
I show him the bible and explain my story about how I aim to return it to whoever lives at the address.
The coffee we drink together is more than adequate to bring me a much needed perk up. When I'd finished all I had to say about my quest he slid off his baseball cap and wiped his head with his big bear paw like, 'Hop aboard kid, I'll take you as far as Tonopah If that’s suits. 'I look at him sideways and he holler's out another big laugh, ‘sorry, I mean Zach.'
For the next day and a half we cruise across country, passing through Ohio, Illinois, Iowa and Nebraska. He never seems to sleep. we talk and laugh and only stop for toilet breaks, and supplies. We touch on Wyoming and scout Utah. Blue's big ole Silver semi seems to glide along the highway. The engine is so quiet you would swear it wasn't running. ‘Don’t you ever need to get gas Blue?' I asked him once when we stopped briefly at a station. 'Filled her up fore I left Zach, besides she run's smoother on love and will power' he tap's the side of his nose and lets rip with another belly laugh, 'You get mah drift.'
By early evening we have reached Tonopah city limits. Blue swings his truck alongside a rest room that’s behind a sparse gas station. The tires crunch into the loose gravel and the hiss of air brakes brings us to a shuddering halt. Blue's face no longer has his oversized grin on it, his mood feels plaintive.
'This is as far as I go Zach' he whispers with a nod. ‘We’re at the end of the road buddy.'
'I'm gonna miss you Blue' I say with a heavy heart.
'Likewise' he replies. ‘You take care of yorself naw ye hear.'
I expect him to stick out his spade sized hand but he leans into me and gives me a back slapping bear hug that takes my breath away. I feel a salty tear force its way into my eye. I grab my suitcase and coat from behind my seat and climb down from the foot plate. 'Tonopah is 'bout two miles that way' he points. ‘It’s bin good beein with ya Zach, and I hope yoh find yoh way.’
I lift my hand to wave but I leave it hanging in the air as his truck speeds away, his bellowing laughs echoing into the sunset. The silence he leaves is spacious. A light rain begins to drift in as I make my way to town. the road is straight and even, a two lane black top that seems to sever the horizon. And by the time I get to the main square the streets lights are on and are reflecting yellow light upwards from the wet gullies. Car's hiss by on the wet road, not many, Tonopah is a small town. So my main thought is to get a bed for the night and change out of my wet clothes. A few neon lights flicker along my route advertising a drug store, a bank, restaurants and coffee shops. Typical of any small town in America, none seem to point to any hotels. Tired and wet I sit down on my suitcase and close my eyes briefly. The hypnotic sound of the rain and passing traffic sends my mind off into a trance. in my chest I can feel my heart beating, and my breathing becomes shallow and slow. Then the intrusion into my head that comes is frighteningly clear, the face of the blond woman, her eyes wide and crying, is so vivid. She screams my name and jolts me back into reality.
'Jesus Christ!' I hear myself shout, the shock of my instant incubus makes me fall from my temporary seat onto the wet sidewalk, and the bible tumbles from my pocket and follows me there. For a moment I lay and watch as the night wind blows and flicks the pages, rain drops strike and stain the paper. Slowly they stop until two pages are left flapping like dove wings. The rain washes over my face and blurs my vision yet one line seems to stand out, raised up by the dampness.
Revelation 21:22 - "And I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it." slowly I begin to understand. ‘A church' I whisper 'Of course, I can find help there.'
Thankfully a passer by gives me directions to the only place in town that’s open at this late hour. St Gabriel’s Catholic chapel sits lost behind a newly built two story office block and shop fronts, just four blocks from where I was sitting. The only thing visible from the road is its spire. By the time I reach its main door the rain has gotten heavier. But a welcome mellow light from inside spews onto the three cracked steps leading up to the stained glass door. it throws an inverted mosaic picture of the crucifixion at my feet.
The heavy oak door creaks and groans granting me access. Inside four massive stone pillars support an impressive lattice teak ceiling. I can smell the coldness of the marble mosaic below my feet, above my head four ornate crystal chandeliers sway lightly in the mild air. Contentment bathes my body, making me feel safe, and dry. I choose the fifth pew on the right; the old wood feels warm below me as I slip into it. Once more my eyes feel heavy, but I am reluctant to sleep. As time passes the silence creeps over me and images of Dad standing in the book shop, talking, laughing, filter into my thinking, then Nan, Blue and the Blond woman who is calling my name. I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts I do not hear the door open, then a gentle voice from behind me echoes round the chapel.
'Are you waiting for the priest?' an old gentleman asks me with a smile. 'It's just that he won't be back till morning, one of the parishioners is very sick, he may be dying and Father Luke has gone to see him'
'No' I reply 'I just came in to rest from the rain'
'Oh!
'That’s not a problem is it?'
'No young sir, this is the house of God - all are welcome' he says as He ambles towards me; it's then I notice his walking stick and the distinct bow of his right leg. Each step he takes displays pain upon his saddle bag face and the clack of his cane echoes around the chapel.
'You're not from round here are you?' he asks.
'No sir, New York'
'What has you so far from home young man?'
'It's a long story' I answer. Suddenly I feel the tiredness again inside me.
'Well' he smiles. I can see he has three teeth missing. 'It's still raining hard outside, and I have no where else to be for a while. let's say we have a good old talk and you tell me where you're coming from and going to.' He leans onto his cane and puts out his left hand for me to shake; his grip is limp and cold.
'Zachery Miller, nice to meet you sir'
'That’s a fine biblical name young man' he answers, 'Just you call me Aaron, Zachery Miller'
For the next hour as a storm rages outside I tell him my story of the bible and my journey so far, I explain how I wish to return the book to its owner, about my dad, the shop in New York and the people I've met. He listens intently only interrupting to ask me to repeat things he may have missed due to -''My bad hearing''
‘It’s a noble quest Zachery' he says as I finish 'But what if the person who owns the bible no longer lives there?' I look at him stunned, this thought never crossed my mind, but for some strange reason I am sure that someone will be there. Maybe because of the visions I have been having, the Blond woman calling my name and lately an image of a black wrought iron gateway and a drive inset of tall fir trees lining each side up to a white house with a brown shingle roof.
‘I must continue on Aaron, I've come too far to stop now, besides this journey has helped me in more ways than I could have imagined, if it fails then so be it'
For a moment I feel my shoulders drop. what if he's right? What if no one lives there any more, have I wasted my time with a futile pursuit?
'Are you Okay Zach?' he asks. maybe I think he see's the seed of doubt forming inside me, could it be that obvious.
'Look, I have an idea Zach, my car is parked outside, why don’t you take it and finish your journey, it would be my pleasure.'
'I'm sorry Aaron I can't do that, you hardly know me, it's not right.'
He shakes his head and smacks his lips in irritation. ‘Now you look here Zachery Miller, you are a good boy, you take these keys and lets be no more said about it'
'But how will you get back?' I ask him
'Don't you worry about that or me, when Father Luke comes he'll see that I get home just fine'
Suddenly the excitement is full in me again. 'Only if you're sure, Aaron'
‘You hurry along now son,’ he smiles ‘’the storm has eased and it's nearly dawn, go and get that Bible back to where it belongs, now get, it’s the Green Buick.'
I gather my suitcase and put the bible back into my coat pocket. Aaron watches me as I walk to the door. he leans onto his cane once more and raises his left hand, 'You take care now Zachery Miller'. The pull on my heart feels the same as when my Father died, yet I only met this man a few hours ago. ‘Goodbye Aaron! It’s been a pleasure knowing you, and don’t worry, I'll bring your car back' I shout at him, my voice echoes around the church. when I look back he's gone.
Sure enough just outside sits a 1955 Buick Super, its chrome bumpers shining in the dawn light.
Its body work is in perfect condition. ‘Old man, old car, seems about right I guess' - it’s not locked. Inside the upholstery smells of new leather, there's a tincture of iodine, a roll on lip balm stick and a tube of skin cream on the passenger seat. Used paper tissues are stuffed into the ashtray and a large floral duck egg booster cushion is on the drivers. The ignition key (complete with white rabbit’s foot hanging from the rear view mirror) slips easily in, and with little effort the engine settles into a soft purr. It’s been years since I drove a stick shift but after a few stalls I manage to get moving. gradually I begin to fall into an uneasy confidence.
I turn onto US 95 and head west out of town. in the light of day the Grey stone buildings look clean and bright. Old pioneer remnants and new structures mix together, overseen by mild mountain peaks barely visible above the city roof tops. About 45 minutes later I'm cruising along the Alpine State Highway towards California. After a few miles I stop for gas in Fallon, and head on to Reno. the old Buick takes the road effortlessly. People stop and stare at this rare automobile passing, some wave at me, others just point. Either way I savor my notoriety.
On through Truckee, Auburn and Roseville, onto Sacramento’s Lincoln Highway that takes me to Vacaville, a typical small American town. The main street is narrow with bustling shops and people standing, talking, and enjoying the afternoon sunshine. The light is beginning to fade as I pass into Vallejo, Richmond, then Berkeley - across the busy golden gate bridge and finally into San Francisco. A slight left in to Lombard Street takes me onto Van Ness Avenue. According to the directions I get from a friendly cop I'm less than a mile from my destination. He draws me a pencil map on a scrap piece of paper, its shows me heading through Jones Street then on to 5th Street.
It's about 8.45pm when I finally turn into Howard street, I begin to count the House numbers as I drive slowly along, 36, then 40, 45 to 50. then I see it fade into view just like in my dream, a black iron gate with tall fir trees each side of the drive leading up to a white house with a brown shingle roof. The sight makes my mouth go dry as I pull the Buick to the side and Park. Gooseflesh rises on my neck and arms as I approach the gate. for a moment I hesitate, what if no one answers when I ring the intercom? Should I just leave now and forget about everything? In that moment of indecision I remember what Nan wrote in the Bible, what Blue did for me, and Aaron who got me to this point. I cannot turn back - not now. I push the silver button and wait. It makes a muted beeping sound for what seems forever. Slowly I feel my shoulders drop with disappointment - it seems no one is home. have I failed, I wonder. Then just as I turn to leave a saintly woman’s voice comes over the speaker.
‘Hello! who's there?'.
I lean in closer to the speaker. 'Hi my name is Zachery Miller and I have come to return a bible I found in a suitcase in my Fathers book shop, this is the address that was inside.' Endless moments pass and the silence is so long I think maybe she has gone. Only static pours out of the intercom. Once again I think about leaving, but a voice then crackles through the static. 'You had better come up to the house’ the woman says. then the gate lock clicks, it opens slightly. Drive way lights come on just as I step in; they throw a mellow white glow onto the gravel path tenuously illuminating the tall fir trees. I feel the loose stones move and crunch under my feet, with each step I get more and more anxious of what may happen. Seconds pass and then I'm at the door. for a brief moment I check myself, flatten my hair and tuck my shirt into my jeans. But before I can finish it opens. what I see next takes the power out of my legs. Standing in the hallway light is the same blond woman who has been in my dreams calling to me, when she speaks I know it’s her. ‘Please come in John' she gestures.
I try to correct her name error as we walk along a short dimly lit corridor. 'I'm afraid you must be mistaken ma'am, my fathers name was John, but I think I said I was Zachery.' Annoyingly she pays no heed to my excursive talking, instead she leads me into a room where a large brown leather couch sits midway between an open fire and a spacious dining area. She points to an adjacent chair. 'Please sit' she gestures. 'would you like something to drink?' 'No-thank you' I decline. My eyes begin to scan the room; I notice a photograph in a gold frame sitting on a coffee table. Five people stand together, smiling, holding a baby; the more I stare the more I cannot believe what I am seeing.
Slowly I raise myself up from my seat and move closer, gradually their faces become clearer. I look to it, then to her, and then back to the photograph. She smiles at me and nods.
'I, I, I-, know these people' I stammer. ‘But how cou-' my mind is racing, looking back at me is my Father, the Blonde woman who is sitting with me, Nan beside Blue with his baseball hat, and old Aaron with his crooked leg and cane. behind them is a green Buick car. The same one I just arrived in.
'Who are you?' I finally muster.
‘I think you know who I am John, -- I am your mother'
‘But you're supposed to be dead' I protest. 'Father told me you died giving birth to me.'
'Is that what he said to you?' she looks at me and places her hands in her lap. I watch them move nervously as we talk. ‘The truth is he took you away from me' she says. I can see tears form in her eyes as she remembers the past. Somewhere in my head I want to think she is lying to me, but I am compelled to listen. I want to hear her story.
'Father called you Beth'
she smiles and nod's. ‘He never liked to be formal, your Dad. It's Elisabeth Rose Miller'
‘He never showed me any pictures of you, why?'
‘We argued a lot after you were born'
I move from my seat over to the photograph, she watches as I lift it up and touch the glass.
‘He always had this dream of opening a book shop in New York, it was a fanciful idea to me, we had a new baby - you, and money was tight. For the first few years I thought he had given up on the idea, but he became restless, the arguments resumed. When you were three he said he wanted to go visit his mother and would it be Okay to take you along. I had no reason to refuse'
I point at the old lady in the photograph 'This is Nan; I met her on the Bus from New York'
'Yes, that’s your Grand Mother John, she's the one who must have given you the bible when you and your dad visited her. there is no way you could have met her on the bus, she died two years after you both disappeared. You see, she has been buried up in Arlington since then.'
‘And what about Blue?'
‘That’s your Uncle Bobby, my brother, everyone called him Blue. He drove a big Ole Silver truck across country; he loved you like a son but he burned to death in his cab after he lost control and crashed into a gas station just outside of Tonapah. they said he was avoiding some kid who had ran onto the highway while his mother filled up her car'
Suddenly I feel sick. ‘I traveled with him, I rode in his truck’ I heard myself stammer, but I could see she was looking at me as if I was delusional. ‘Blue and I searched for you both for years’ she answered, rising. ‘your Father never got in touch with us since the day you left, and we never knew where you were. We tried everything. It seems like he found his dream after all, how is he?'
‘He’s dead' her eyes close at my clinical revelation. 'Took a stroke two weeks ago.' her head turns into herself and I see the pain surface. ‘I’m so sorry.' The silence between us hangs in the air. I can understand now that she did love him, and me, but his dream was bigger than everything.
'And Aaron?' I reluctantly point back to the photograph, 'How do you explain the Buick?'
'Aaron was my Father. he broke his heart when John took you away, just last night Father Luke rushed to the old peoples home where he resided close to St Gabriel Chapel. Aaron passed away peacefully in his sleep; I got the call this morning. He always swore you would come back some day, he promised he would hold on to the Buick until you did return. seems like he got to keep his word'
‘But what has happened is impossible, how can-' she cuts me short.
'Who are we to try and understand the power of love, there are more things in heaven and earth than we can ever comprehend. be thankful John Zachery Miller that they loved you enough to guide you safely home.'
I slump back into my chair and shake my head silently in a bemused agreement, 'I guess!'
'Give me your Bible John' she says to me, 'I want to show you something'.
I take it from my pocket and hand it to her, she opens it up to its back, slowly she peels away the linen cover, threads snap. Secreted behind is a small photograph, a copy of the same one that’s in the frame.
‘How, how, did you know it was there?'
'Nan sewed it into your bible just after you were born, she was making sure you were always never far away from your family.'
For the first time, in a long time, I feel emotions rise inside me. I cannot hold back the tears, the tears for the loss of my dad, and for Nan, Blue, Aaron and finally meeting my Mother. I want to hold her, feel her love, her arms around me. Slowly she moves and we caress, I can smell her, memories of a childhood flood back in a torrent of feelings. We part still holding hands and sobbing together.
'What, what, now John Zachery Miller?' she asks me.
‘Maybe’ I smile, ‘may-bee! I'll open a book shop in San Francisco. what do you think, Mom?'
Will Neill. 2010
Valerie Allen
07/15/2022Will - thank you for this moving story. It reflects the deep emotions of all family members involved in this type of situation. Sadly, it happens all too often and children, unwittingly, become the victims. Well done!
Reply
COMMENTS (1)