Saturday, June 27, 2020

Of Love and Magic - an excerpt



 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.
Ever want to run away? Do it and go skinny-dipping before you die! Of Love and Magic on Amazon

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 AmazonBarnes and NobleKobo and iBook author pages. You might also like checking out his Facebook page

Alcoholic Hazes - a short story

Hurricane Katrina decimated New Orleans in August 2005. My Louisiana parents were living with my wife Marilyn and me in Oklahoma. My mom had...