How old is too old to fall in love? The question haunted me when I read a newspaper article in the Oklahoman about an old man that had disappeared from his son’s house during a late spring snowstorm. The numerous
casinos now prevalent all over Oklahoma weren’t in existence when I wrote this
book. There was, however, Indian bingo. I drove through Red Rock, Oklahoma—site
of a huge bingo gaming facility— the very day I read the article about the old
man. It was springtime, flowers blooming and trees just starting to bud. Like
the flowers and trees, the story sprang forth in my mind, not letting me rest
until I’d committed it to paper.
The Battle of the
Bulge story that John tells is true, at least as far as I know, recounted to me
by my own father, a code clerk during World War II. Growing up, he was always
my hero. His era produced many heroes, mostly unsung, their stories never told. Here's one of those stories for you.
Of Love and Magic
Chapter 1
(Tulsa Oklahoma, 1994)
A gray afternoon in Oklahoma,
snow had begun falling before sunset. Cynthia Warren didn’t notice as she
sorted through rows of expensive clothes draped together in her walk-in closet.
Young and attractive, she was also a klutz, bumping into a stool after
selecting a pale blue gown.
“Dammit!” she
said.
After rubbing her
leg, she hurried to her dressing table, colliding with her husband and knocking
the drink from his hand. Dan Warren, tall and thin with dark wavy hair, daubed
at the wet spot on his tuxedo pants, barely noticing as he continued reading
the newspaper in his hand.
“Will you hurry?”
Cynthia said. “The sitter will be here any minute.”
Getting no
reaction, she glanced at her husband in the mirror.
“Jake Thompson
died last night,” he said.
Slipping the dress
over her head, she sat on the edge of the bed to straighten her hose.
“Who’s that?”
“Dad’s best
friend,” he said, smoothing thick brown hair with his long fingers. “War
buddies.”
“Have you told
him?”
He shook his head,
his expression revealing momentary pain just behind his pale blue eyes.
“I can’t talk to
him anymore. He just vegetates in his room in that old chair, staring out the
window.”
“Don’t be so hard
on him,” she said. “He’s just lonely.”
“Senile’s more
like it. I may as well tell him about Jake, and break the news about
Crestview.”
Standing in front
of the bathroom mirror, Cynthia frantically brushed her hair.
“I’m still not
sure we’re doing the right thing. Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
Dan fixed another
drink from the Scotch bottle on the dresser before starting upstairs to his
father’s room.
“I’ve already put
this off long enough.”
Cynthia stopped
brushing her hair and stared at her husband as he went upstairs, a look of
resolve on his face. Rapping on the old man’s door and not expecting an answer,
he entered without waiting for one. Sitting in an Afghan-draped rocking chair,
staring listlessly out the window, was his father. Pale skin on the old man’s
neck seemed to coalesce with the faded orange Afghan.
“Dad, let’s have a
talk.” When the older man didn’t answer, or even bother turning around, Dan
continued anyway. “Mom died three years ago. The girls start school next year
and Cyn’s doing more charity work. My caseload with the firm has increased,
and I’m in line for partnership this year. Do you understand what I’m trying to
tell you?”
The older man
answered in a low, almost inaudible voice. “Son, I’m proud of you. If your
mother were still alive, I know she’d also be proud.”
Dan tried
breathing deeply, almost choking on his frustration. Instead, he lowered his
head, clenched his teeth, and toyed with a strand of errant hair. When the book
in the old man’s hand dropped to the floor, neither father nor son seemed to
notice the dull thud it made when it struck the carpet. Dan opened his eyes and
continued speaking with measured words.
“That’s not what
I’m talking about.”
As if in a trance,
the older man seemed to pay no attention to the severity of his son’s tone and
continued staring out the window at slow-falling snow. It was more than Dan
could take. Grabbing the chair, he wheeled it violently around.
“Damn it! Look at
me when I’m talking to you.”
Pressing even
further against the Afghan, the old man thought for a moment his angry son
might strike him.
His voice cracked
when he said, “I’m sorry, Son.”
Dan let go of the
chair. Again he tried breathing deeply. His efforts only prevented veins of
erupting redness from deserting his face. Pacing to the opposite wall, he
banged his hand against it and tossed the newspaper, wadded like a club, to the
floor. This time a paperback Western, on the nightstand beside the bed, tumbled
to the carpet. Dan kicked it under the bed.
“Cynthia and I want you to be with people your
own age. You’ve vegetated in this room since you broke your hip. You don’t
talk. You don’t come downstairs to eat, and frankly, I’m fed up to here with
your bullshit.” Touching his throat to show just how fed up he was, he added,
“Come Monday, like it or not, we’re taking you to Crestview.”
“Son . . .”
“No! That’s it.
Damn it to hell! I’m so mad right now I can’t see straight. You’re going Monday
and that’s that.”
Dan Warren,
tumbling yet a third book to the floor as he abandoned his father, backed out
the door and slammed it behind him.
When he returned
to the bedroom, Cynthia said, “Is he all right?”
“Yeah,” he
mumbled, still frowning as he buttoned his shirt.
“Is who all right,
Mama?”
Trish and Emily, identical
twins, entered the room, already dressed for bed. As beautiful as their mother,
both little girls also had blue eyes and raven hair. Unlike their mother’s
close-cropped, sophisticated cut, long dark braids tied with bright red bows
framed their pretty faces.
Cynthia had
trouble telling them apart. Dan couldn’t. Sparky, their ever-present cocker
puppy, padded along behind them. Like the girls, his hair was also black, and
he had his own red bow tied jauntily around his neck. Emily handed the puppy to
her mother and it promptly licked a warm swath across her nose.
Insistently, Trish
asked, “Is who all right?”
“Nothing, dear,”
Cynthia said, rushing to the dressing table to repair her make-up. “Is Julie
here yet?”
“She helped us
with our pajamas,” Emily said. “We came to kiss you goodnight.”
After hugging and
kissing their mother, the two little girls wriggled away from her and grabbed
Dan’s elbows, tugging his arm until he stopped straightening his tie and bent
over to return their hugs.
“Goodnight, you
two rug rats.”
“Sorry, Mrs.
Warren,” the sitter said, poking her head into the room.
“No problem,
Julie. We’ll be home late if it’s okay with you.”
“I’ll be fine.
Come on, girls. Let’s go say goodnight to Grandpa.”
Cynthia continued
combing her hair until the combined stairway clatter of dog and little girls
dissipated, and then glanced apprehensively at Dan.
“Sure about this?”
Grabbing her
elbow, he pulled her toward the door. “The only thing I’m sure about, my dear,
is we’re late.”
***
Trish and Emily
rushed into their grandfather’s room, unannounced, as their parents hurried out
the front door. They found the old man on his knees, gazing at the paper Dan
had tossed to the floor. Trish handed him the squirming puppy and it promptly
licked a warm swath across his mouth.
“What you doing,
Grandpa?”
“Reading the
paper, Trishy,” he said, petting the dog.
“How do you know
I’m not Emily?”
“Cause grandpas
know everything.”
“We came to say
goodnight,” Emily said, joining them.
John Warren
dropped the paper to the floor, placed the wiggling puppy beside it, and hugged
the two little girls.
“Pleasant dreams
my sweethearts.”
Emily wiped her
hand across his craggy face. “Grandpa, are you crying?”
“No, Emily. It’s
just something in my eye.”
Turning away, he
rubbed his eyes with his shirt sleeve before turning back and kissing them.
“Sleep well my
pretties,”
“Please tell us a
bedtime story before we go to sleep,” Emily pleaded. “Please?”
With a nod, he
shrugged his scrawny shoulders, smiled and said, “Old men like their arms
twisted.”
Both little girls
grabbed his arms, squealed, and said, “Please, please.”
“Okay, then. Go to
your room and get ready. I’ll be along to tell you a short one.”
“Oh boy!” they
said, rushing out the door. “Please hurry. We’ll be waiting.”
They didn’t bother
shutting the door behind them. Once their scurrying footsteps evaporated down
the hallway, silence engulfed the dark little room. John pulled himself stiffly
to his feet with the bedpost, staring at the
newspaper he’d retrieved from the floor.
“Jake Thompson,
you old gutter-snipe,” he said, shaking his head.
Jutting away from
his craggy cheeks, and sloping abruptly downward, John’s prominent nose
dominated his face. This, along with closely-spaced eyes, caused him to
resemble a hawk, or maybe a bald eagle. Feathery gray hair heightened this
illusion. He was also as tall and slender as his son, the family resemblance
instantly noticeable.
Wiping another
tear from his nose, he shuffled through clothes in his dresser drawer,
searching for a hidden bottle of bourbon. Finding it, he tipped up the
container and drank until amber liquid dribbled out his thin lips, down the
loose skin on his neck.
“Here’s to you,
Jake.”
After taking
another long pull from the bottle, he grabbed an overnight bag from the
closet’s upper shelf and began filling it with clothes from the dresser. Before
shutting the bag, he removed his wife’s picture from his nightstand and placed
it on top of the clothes. Finally finished, he limped down the hall to his
granddaughters’ bedroom where he found the babysitter, waiting at the door.
“I’ll be
downstairs if you need me,” she said.
“Thanks, Julie,”
he said, subconsciously resenting her implication, although knowing she meant
well.
Already in their
beds, the two little girls waited anxiously as he sat in the chair. He couldn’t
help smiling at their rapt anticipation.
“What story do you
want to hear tonight?”
“A new one,” Emily
said.
“Something we
haven’t heard before,” Trish said.
Scratching his
head, he thought a moment. “I have a new story. It’s about Otter and the
Salamander. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes,” both little
girls shouted.
Staring dreamily
at the ceiling, he leaned back in the chair and began, “Once upon a time, an
otter lived in a small pond in the woods. The otter was old, like your
grandfather, his children grown. So old was he, in fact, almost all his
friends, except his best friend Salamander, had passed away. Mr. Salamander’s
children had moved him far away to a much smaller pond. Otter missed their
chess games and swapping of tales, but Salamander kept in contact. They talked
every day on the wildlife telephone. One day, Salamander didn’t call.”
Trish asked, “What
happened?”
“Stop squirming,
young lady, and I’ll tell you,” he said with a wink. “Otter worried about his
friend. He wanted to call but had caught his toe in a trap the previous
spring. Otter was old and the sore toe didn’t heal fast as it might. Feeling
sorry for himself because of his loneliness, he somehow blamed everyone else.
When he learned his old friend had passed away, he felt very, very sad.”
“What did he do?”
the twins caroled.
“Like I said,
Otter was old, but not that old. He decided to leave the pond for one last
trip. Visit the Magic Fountain before he died.”
Trish asked,
“What’s that?”
He raised his hand
toward the ceiling. “The Magic Fountain is a place in our minds. Crystal water
pours from its mouth, revitalizing body and spirit. Otter had visited it once
in his youth. Now, on a whim, he decided to go there, one last time. Packing
his otter luggage, he set out on an odyssey.”
“Grandpa, what’s
an odyssey?”
Smiling and gently
brushing Emily’s long hair back away from her sleepy eyes, he explained. “It’s
a journey to a place far away, and not easy to reach. But Otter had a good
heart and strong desire. He left the pond in quest of the fountain.”
“Did he find it?”
After kissing both
little girls, he tucked the covers around their necks. “Tell you next time.
Just remember,” he said, pausing on his way out the door. “It’s not always so
important we find the Magic Fountain, only that we never stop looking.”
With that, he
turned off the lights and closed the door behind him. Rock music vibrated the
hallway walls as he returned to his room. After a frustrating moment spent rummaging
through his closet, he realized he no longer had a heavy coat to wear. After
taking one last look at the wrinkled newspaper lying on the bed, he switched
off the lights and crept downstairs to the hall closet.
Both avid skiers,
Cynthia and Dan, had all the expensive trappings of the sport. John had once
tried on his son’s goose-down ski jacket.
“Sorry, Dan,” he
said, slipping the jacket over his bony shoulders.
He drew the hood
tightly around his neck. With a stubborn smile and only a momentary backward
glance, he entered the snowstorm, plodding the icy sidewalk toward a beckoning
glimmer of distant streetlights.
Chapter 2
Snow fell in damp white clumps as
John walked out the kitchen door, no idea where he was heading, although intent
on getting there. Unexpected spring snow had left streets in the swank Tulsa
neighborhood deserted. Two blocks from home, sounds of tires slipping in ice
and snow attracted his attention. When he rounded the corner he found a large
recreational vehicle stuck on the curb, one rear wheel spinning uselessly. He
tapped on the driver’s window which was hazy with condensation.
A woman’s head
appeared and he said, “Need help?”
“Sure do. You have
a couple of big, strong sons? Or the number of a good wrecker service?”
He chuckled.
“Don’t have either, but I can get you off the curb if you’d like.”
Taking her foot
off the gas, she gave him a slow appraisal. “Don’t know what horse you rode in
on, but I’ll bite.”
“Have a tire iron
in that bus?” he asked, ignoring her sarcasm.
“Yes I have a tire
iron, and no, this isn’t a bus. It’s a recreational vehicle.”
“Maybe that’s your
problem.”
“What’s that
supposed to mean?”
“It means you
should probably be in a National Park instead of a snowed-in Tulsa subdivision.
Don’t worry. You get me that tire iron and I’ll get you off the curb.”
Closing the window
with an annoyed grumble, she disappeared into the RV, returning shortly with a
tire iron. With a skeptical glance, she handed him the tool.
He smiled and
pointed his thumb skyward. “Turn on the engine and wait for my signal before
giving it a little gas.”
She watched as he
placed the iron beneath the large rear tire. After working it around a bit, he
raised his finger. As she applied the gas, he wiggled the tire iron. Lurching
briefly, the long RV slid easily off the curb. Driving it to the center of the
snow-packed road, she stopped, opening the window when he held up the tool.
“Don’t forget your
tire iron.”
Winking and
smiling again, he waited for her to take the tool and drive away. Instead, she
sat there, staring at him, a quizzical expression on her face.
“Thanks. I was
just about to panic. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“Don’t know. Where
are you headed?”
Smiling for the
first time, she said, “Depends on where I am. I’ve been driving in circles in
this crazy neighborhood for nearly an hour.”
“61st Street is
just around the corner,” he said, pointing.
“Is there a
filling station close by? I’m almost out of gas.”
“Turn right on
61st. There’s a station at the intersection.”
The nearby thoroughfare
was busy with passing cars, tires crunching through patches of snow. The
neighbor’s dog began barking, hushing when he recognized John.
“You didn’t answer
my question about the ride.”
“You didn’t say
where you’re going,” he said.
“The filling
station, if I don’t get lost again. Show me the way, and I’ll drop you off
afterward.”
“Deal,” he said,
offering his hand as he entered the RV. “My name’s John Warren.”
“Attie Johnson.
Buckle up. Never know when we might wind up in the ditch.”
John buckled his seat
belt, stealing glances at the handsome woman behind the wheel as he leaned back
into the high-backed, comfortable seat. When she turned around and caught him
looking, he grinned coyly. Attie Johnson had a youthful look about her, big
dark eyes, gray-streaked braided hair, and classically high cheekbones. He
thought she might be in her fifties, though suspected she could easily be
older.
They followed the
snow-packed street to a well-lighted filling station. While waiting for the
attendant, she switched on an overhead light and removed a map from the side
pocket, spreading it out on the console between them.
“I’m on my way to
play Indian bingo at Red Rock. Can you show me how to get to the Cimarron
Turnpike from here?”
“You bet,” he
said, taking the map and indicating the route with his finger.
When the tanks
were full, she cranked the engine and eased back onto the street, slipping in
the icy slush, though never really out of control.
“Better let me off
here,” he said.
“We came from the
other direction.”
“Not going home.
I’m on my way to Hot Springs.”
“Surely you aren’t
on foot.”
“Yes I am. I’ll
hitch a ride on the Interstate,” he said.
Attie abruptly put
her foot on the brake, skidding to a halt in the snow. “You in a hurry?” she
asked, her dark-eyed stare causing him instant discomfort.
“Not really.”
“Neither am I. I
could use a cup of hot coffee. Let’s park this thing and I’ll brew us up a
pot.”
When she parked
across the street in a nearly deserted shopping center parking lot, he made
himself comfortable as the aroma of brewing coffee saturated dry air in the RV.
When the last sputter of coffee poured through the spout, she placed their cups
on the built-in table.
“Now, tell me what
a man your age is doing out on a night like this, hitchhiking to Hot Springs.”
John chuckled as
he sipped his coffee. “It sounds silly, even to me. Guess you might say I’m
running away from home.”
“You’re right. It
does sound silly. Why?”
“I really don’t
want my son to know where I am.”
“That’s
irrational, not childish. Maybe you’d better explain.”
He slumped back
against the bench seat. “My wife died three years ago, about the time I fell
and broke my hip. I moved in with my son and his wife. Now I can see I began
acting like an invalid, and they started treating me like one.”
“Is that all?”
Slowly shaking his
head, he eased back against the couch. “No. Sometimes you just let things
happen because it’s easier than doing something about it. Know what I mean?”
“Maybe. Tell me
anyway.”
“After Martha
died, I just blanked out awhile. Between Martha’s death and my broken hip, I
didn’t feel like explaining my feelings to anyone. Not that they’d have
understood. My son interpreted my reticence as senility.”
“You sound
cognizant to me,” Attie said.
“Thanks. Never
felt more aware in my life.”
“So what
happened?”
“Dan, my son, is
an attorney. He had me declared incompetent. It’s partially my own fault
because I knowingly let him do it. Monday, he’s putting me in an old folk’s
home. If I’m there, that is.”
“Just explain to
him you’re not incompetent. Move back to your own house.”
“He sold it and
liquidated my assets.”
“Have him give
them back.”
“I don’t really
care about the house and money. Right now, all I want to do is go to Hot
Springs.”
Staring straight
at him with dark piercing eyes, she said, “To die?”
Shaking his head,
he grinned. “Not to die. I want to live, at least as long as I can.”
Attie leaned
across the table and touched his hand. “It’s no fun playing bingo alone. Why
don’t you take a little detour with me to Red Rock?”
***
Dan and Cynthia
returned home from the party to find the twins in bed, Julie asleep on the
couch. Trish and Emily let them sleep, undisturbed, until late the next
morning. Unable to keep quiet any longer, they pushed open the bedroom door and
entered with an assault of noisy heels against the hardwood floor.
“Dad, let’s go to
the park. You promised we could go Saturday, and it is Saturday.”
Dan Warren sat up
in bed, licked his salty lips, unhinged glue-encrusted eyelids, and ran his hand
across the dark stubble on his face. His stomach churned and pain reverberated
between his temples. Without answering the little girl, he lifted himself out
of bed and rushed to the bathroom.
“I don’t think
Daddy feels well,” Cynthia said. “I’ll take you to the park after I dress.”
“But Daddy
promised,” Emily pouted.
“Next Saturday,”
he said, returning from the bathroom. “Now go outside and play until your
mother’s ready.”
Cynthia cast him a
dirty look as the two little girls rushed from the room. “I don’t feel much
better than you, Tarzan. Why can’t you take Trish and Emily to the park every
once in a while, and let me stay in bed?”
“Because I’m
working on a big case. I brought some things home I need to finish,” he said,
glancing at his watch. “If I don’t hurry, I’ll miss the ball game.”
Cynthia threw her
hands in the air as she went to the bathroom. “Heaven help us!”
She dressed and
joined him at the breakfast table, finding him sipping coffee as he read the
morning paper. Billie, the cook, and housekeeper poured her a cup when she sat
down.
“Would you like
bacon and eggs, Ms. Warren?”
“Yes, thank you
Billie.”
“Old Mr. Warren
didn’t eat this morning,” she said, scraping the food from a plate into the
disposal.”
Dan glanced up
from his paper. “Is that unusual?”
“Yes sir,” she
said. “The old man, I mean Mr. Warren, usually eats like a sled-pulling dog.”
“Humph!” he
allowed, burying his head into the paper. “I didn’t realize he ate that much.”
“I know. You
wouldn’t think a skinny man like that could put away so much food.”
“Maybe you should
check on him,” Cynthia said.
He shook his head.
“I’m sure he’s fine. You couldn’t hurt the old bat with a lead-weighted club.”
“That’s not a very
nice thing to say about your father.”
“But true. The old
bird will probably outlive us both.”
With an abrupt
clatter of little heels on the living room’s polished wood floor, Trish and
Emily, followed by the panting cocker puppy, appeared from around the corner.
“Mommy, Mommy,
Grandpa’s not in his room.”
“Whoa,” Dan said,
holding up his hand. “Didn’t I tell you not to run in the living room? You know
it’ll scratch the floor.”
“Daddy, Grandpa’s
gone,” Emily said.
Again, he buried
his head in the paper. “Probably just down the hall.”
“Does he move
around the house during the day?” Cynthia asked.
Billie shook her head.
“He sticks mostly to his room.”
“Dan,” Cynthia
said. “Check on your father.” He continued staring stoically at the paper.
“Dan!”
His stubborn glare
was his only reply. Frowning, she went upstairs, followed closely by Trish,
Emily and Sparky. Grumbling, he slapped the unfinished paper against the
kitchen table and started after them. When they reached the old man’s bedroom,
they nudged the door and stood looking at his tidy living quarters.
“Dan, he’s not
here.”
“Where the hell is
he?” he said, still grumbling.
Trish and Emily
hung on their mother’s legs, looking worried. Even the usually frenetic puppy
crouched against Cynthia’s foot.
“Don’t know,” she
said. “Maybe you should call the police.”
“That’s ludicrous.
He must be somewhere in the house. Let’s find him.”
Cynthia called
Billie and they began methodically searching the large house. Twenty
unsuccessful minutes later, they gravitated back to the old man’s room.
Genuinely worried,
Cynthia frowned and said, “Where could he have gone?”
Something on the
bed caught Dan’s eye. Seeing the newspaper he’d left on the floor the previous
night, he immediately reached for the phone.
“Maybe you’re
right, Cyn. I think I better call the police.”
Chapter 3
When Vince Blakeman arrived,
Cynthia was sitting on a couch, twiddling her thumbs as her husband paced
ever-widening circles around the living room floor. She kept staring at the
detective’s tweed sports coat and unmatched tie. Sitting beside her, he removed
a notepad from his coat. Probably in his mid-thirties, Blakeman had the honest,
yet unremarkable looks of a hard-working man, tousled hair, a small mustache,
and brown eyes that didn’t miss much.
“Sorry, Lieutenant
Blakeman,” Dan said. “I just don’t have any idea where he might have gone.”
“Has he ever done
this before?”
“No,”
“Yes,” Cynthia
said, interrupting.
“Ma’am?”
Dan glared at his
wife and then resumed his pacing. “Once, after my mother passed away, he
visited a friend in Oklahoma City. He didn’t return when expected.”
“Where was he?”
“Police found him
in a bar,” Cynthia said.
Blakeman noted the
frown on Dan Warren’s face. “A bar?”
“He and his friend
got a little intoxicated,” Cynthia explained. “The bar’s owner called the
police.”
“Is he an
alcoholic?”
“Course not,” Dan
said. “He was a doctor, for God’s sake.”
“You mean a
medical doctor?”
“Yes, a medical
doctor.”
“Was he on any
prescription medication such as Valium, or anything?”
Dan stopped pacing
and glared at the detective. “What are you getting at?”
“He may have had a
stroke, an allergic reaction to a drug, or maybe an insulin seizure if he’s
diabetic.”
“He isn’t,” Dan
said.
Cynthia frowned at
her husband, then looked away. “Would you like more coffee?” she said, grabbing
Blakeman’s empty cup. We can provide you with his medical records if that will
help.”
“Big help,” he
said.
Glaring at her
husband again, she left the room with the empty coffee cup.
“Mr. Warren, why
don’t you sit down and relax. We’re never going to get to the bottom of this
unless you cooperate.”
“My father could
freeze on the side of the road while I’m answering questions.”
“My men have
covered every foot in a ten-mile radius around your house. An old man couldn’t
have walked any farther than that.”
“Maybe he’s not on
foot,” Cynthia said, returning with fresh coffee.
When Dan frowned
at her insinuation, Blakeman wrote something on his notepad, pretending not to
notice.
“We’re checking
that possibility. State Police are looking for hitchhikers and questioning
motorists they stop.”
“Damn it!” Dan
said, slapping the wall. “This is so frustrating.”
“Maybe he’s with a
friend somewhere in town,” Blakeman said, ignoring the outburst. “A list of his
friends and acquaintances would help us a bunch”
“Certainly,
Detective,” Cynthia said. “We’ll take care of it right away.”
“Good. We’re checking
hospitals and emergency rooms. Does your father have any illnesses you’re aware
of?”
“He’s healthy as a
horse,” Dan said.
Again, Vince
Blakeman caught Cynthia’s worried expression. “Mrs. Warren?”
“He has some heart
problems, although nothing serious.”
“Any indication of
Alzheimer’s? At first, it’s hard to notice.”
“Look here,” Dan
said. “His mind’s like a steel trap.”
“I’m not trying to
be negative. It isn’t beyond the realm of possibility he might be a little
forgetful.”
“You’ve told me
many times that you think your father sometimes has memory lapses,” Cynthia
said.
“I wasn’t
serious,” Dan replied, miffed at the suggestion.
“Considering his
age, a stroke isn’t out of the question.”
Scratching through
the last note, Blakeman sat back against the couch and sipped his coffee,
hoping the young couple would relax.
“We’re so
worried,” Cynthia said. “What else can we do?”
“TV’s already
picked up the story. You could post a reward. That sometimes helps.”
“This is being
blown out of proportion,” Dan said. “How far could an old man have gone? I
don’t like all this adverse publicity.”
This time, both
Cynthia and Blakeman frowned at his insensitive statement.
“You’re not
running for governor and he is your father, you know?” she said.
After folding his
notepad and returning it to his jacket, Blakeman draped the overcoat over his
arm and started for the door.
“Thanks for your
help. We’ll find him in no time. I’ll stay in touch until then.”
Cynthia walked
with him to the front door while her husband continued to frown and pace, not
acknowledging the detective’s departure. Twin sets of running feet greeted her,
Sparky right behind.
“Girls, remember
what your father said about running on the living room floor.”
Trish asked, “They
found Grandpa yet?”
“Not yet. Very
soon now.”
Emily said, “Will
he be all right?”
Cynthia smiled and
pointed toward the door. “He’ll be fine. Why don’t you take Sparky into the
back yard?”
The twins
disappeared out the door as fast as they had appeared, Sparky’s nails scraping
against wood as he followed close behind. By now, Dan had stopped pacing.
Cynthia found him leaning against the wall, frowning as he stared out the
picture window with a blank gaze.
“They’ll find
him,” she said, touching his shoulder.
Giving her a sour
look, he walked away without a word.
***
When sunlight
awakened him the following morning, John Warren didn’t remember where he was.
Cracking the window shade, he squinted out across the parking lot already
filled with Saturday morning shoppers. Rising, he bumped his head on a cabinet
above the couch. His eyes finally focused on an attractive older woman in an
old flannel robe. She was cooking something on a tiny stove, and the strong
aroma of brewing coffee revived his memory.
“Morning, John,”
Attie said, handing him a cup. “Sleep well?”
“Like a ton of
bricks,” he said, rubbing his back.
She chuckled.
“Sorry about that. It was either the couch or the floor.”
He reached down
and patted the floor. “It couldn’t be much worse.”
“You’ll feel
better after breakfast. Bathroom’s in back,” she said. “When we finish eating,
you can shower and shave. I have an extra razor and toothbrush.”
“How about an
extra change of clothes? Seems I left my suitcase on the sidewalk while I was
helping you off the curb.”
“We could go back
for it.”
“No.”
“Then you’ll have
to make do until we can get you some more.”
“Look, ah . . .”
“Attie,” she said.
“Look, Attie.
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
She stopped
stirring the eggs and said, “Going to Red Rock with me, or going home?”
He sipped his
coffee before replying. “Even though I already miss my two granddaughters, I’m
not going back there.”
“You have
granddaughters?”
Fishing through
his coat pocket, he found a picture and handed it to Attie.
“Wow, identical
twins. How old are they?”
“Five going on
twenty.”
“They’re gorgeous.
But so young.”
He glanced up into
her brown eyes. “I look that old?”
“No,” she said.
“I was well into
my forties when I married.”
Grinning, she
patted his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to pry. Let’s eat. Decide what you want to
do when we finish.”
After breakfast,
John closed the door to the little room in back of the RV. Attie had showered
and dressed before him, and her nightgown hung from a hook in the tiny
bathroom. When he touched the silken material, a sensual, almost forgotten
message surged from his finger to his brain. The secretly shared intimacy
embarrassed him and he backed away to finish dressing, trying not to think
about his suddenly confused feelings.
Alone, he studied
some of Attie’s personal objects. Beside her bed a small picture attracted his
curiosity—a man and boy. About ten years old, the boy’s hair and eyes were
dark, his complexion bronze. Like the man in the picture, his nose had the
regal curve of a Native American. The man’s long black hair and dignified
bearing reminded him of powerful chiefs from another century. Posed like father
and son, they appeared frozen in another time.
Staring at the
picture, he wondered about the two people, although snooping into the personal
life of someone he barely knew caused him even further guilt. Trying to forget
his voyeurism, he finished dressing and joined Attie. She’d already put
everything away and had opened the flower-print curtains to greet the sun.
Shielding his eyes from the glare off the melting snow, he found her waiting in
the driver’s seat, studying a map.
Without looking up
to acknowledge his presence, she said, “Feel better?”
“Much better.”
“Decide what
you’re going to do?”
He finished
buttoning his shirt sleeves before replying. “Attie, I appreciate the bunk for
the night, the breakfast, and all your hospitality. I just don’t feel right
intruding on you anymore than I already have.”
“You have
someplace else to go, I’ll understand, though I assure you, you aren’t
intruding. Still thinking about Hot Springs?” When he nodded, she said, “Told
you I’d take you there after I play bingo.”
“You really don’t
mind if I tag along?”
“I’m just a lonely
old woman. I welcome the company.”
“You’re not old. I
have to have at least twenty years on you. Where did you say you are going?”
“Red Rock to play
bingo, then Oklahoma City to gamble on the horses. After that, I’m heading back
to Arkansas. We can detour through Hot Springs if you like.”
He scratched his
chin, remembering a nearly forgotten memory, and smiled. “I haven’t played
bingo since I was a boy.”
“Won’t be any
children playing bingo in Red Rock. It’s big business. They give away about a
quarter of a million dollars a week,” she said.
“You mean two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Are you kidding?”
“It’s the wildest
thing this side of Vegas. On an Indian reservation and exempt from state
taxes.”
“Bet that makes
our bureaucrats happy.”
Attie nodded,
agreeing. “They don’t like it one little bit. The place is a gold mine.
Saturday night there will be people pouring in from six states.”
John’s eyebrows
arched. “I knew there was gambling involved, but I had no idea.”
“You’re in for a
treat,” she said. “I’ve been twice, though never alone.”
“You like to
gamble?”
Shrugging, she
said, “An old woman’s vice.”
“Attie, stop
saying that. You’re not old.”
Patting the seat
beside her, she said, “Neither are you. Now help me navigate. Don’t want to get
lost again.”
“Tulsa is the easiest town in the world to find your way around,” he said with a knowing
grin. “Streets are all numbered, or else in alphabetical order.”
“Someone could
have told me that last night.”
“Not to worry. You
have me to guide you now.”
Reaching across
the console, she gave his knee a friendly pat. For an instant, he experienced
the same warm feeling as when he’d touched her nightgown. After pulling down
the visor to block the imposing glare of bright morning sunlight, she started
the engine.
“Just get me out
of town. Tonight, we’ll break the bank in Red Rock.”
Grinning
complacently, he crossed his arms and leaned back against the seat. As he did,
excited anticipation surged through his veins for the first time in several
years.
###
Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like checking out his Facebook page
