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CHAPTER 2
Late October was mercurial in Vermont, and only a fool or madman would attempt to winter here unprepared. The wind could softly whisper, carry a lilting song of tranquility throughout the hills and valleys, inspire all of creation to greater awareness, then instantaneously howl in pain and anger, leaving a veil of white in its wake.
Such was the case, the morning of October 28th, when The Walking Man entered the outskirts of New Carruthers. His attire attested to the whims of the weather, reflecting the need for layering, a shield against the chill. His old Army field jacket was stained with the residue of many years of constant movement, yet imminently functional, as it had been faithfully cared for. The red pullover sweatshirt mirrored his personality, functional if not fashionable, utilitarian and sensible, designed for long life. Even his hiking boots were perfectly adapted for his use, having served him for many years. They had never given him a blister, resisted water incursion and formed to his feet. The simple walking stick he carried as ballast against the miles, thrust against concrete as quietly as it did in soft dirt. It was his only form of self-protection and he had used it for that purpose only once, when he had poked it menacingly at an aggressive badger after he’d come too close to her warren.
Cities were routinely avoided, except to find the occasional odd job. Even a solitary man had to eat. Most of the jobs were menial; day labor mostly, that no one else wanted. The Walking Man long ago understood migrant farm workers’ recalcitrance, but he lacked the spirit of rebellion born of confrontation. It was easier to avoid people and allow others to do whatever they pleased without his presence. His associations with humankind reinforced his need for distance and confirmed his decision to withdraw. Arrogance and greed, hallmarks of his roots, were unacceptable. He simply wasn't like them, and this gave him great comfort.
The Walking Man didn't stand out perceptibly, had it not been for his backpack he would have looked like most any other townie. Yet, he felt foreign and uncomfortable. He intended to find Brenda Pittman (if she even lived in this town), try to warn her, and then leave. Just like that. No fanfare or pomp and ceremony, simple catharsis of the soul. He would tell her what he had witnessed and be on his way, leaving her to deal with it however she chose. Then, his moral obligation fulfilled, he would again be free to move on.
Besides, winter wasn't far off, and he needed to find warmer climes, maybe Florida this year. Some nondescript Manatee County orange grove sounded pretty inviting at present. Truthfully, if he looked in the phone book and didn't see Brenda or Luther Pittman, maybe that would be just too damned bad for her.
For that matter, maybe that lunatic had already killed her, too. He had no way of knowing or predicting. Luther’s psychological wounds had to be very deep, and that made him dangerous. The man was obviously capable of anything. Not so long ago, he remembered, he might have fought side by side by Luther in some stinking jungle half a world away. There had been no shortage of Luther’s in Vietnam. The right combination of esprit de corps and napalm changes a man. You can only subject him to a certain amount of atrocity before he’s forced to react. Sometimes, the reaction is delayed. In the days when The Walking Man had been Corporal Thomas Meyer, a metamorphosis of rage resulted in consequences that even now emerged only in dreams. Maybe he was the lucky one.
Was Luther Pittman’s act a delayed response to some demon carried around for thirty years, or was it a cold-blooded scene in a well-rehearsed play? There was to be a second act, and perhaps, a third and fourth. No one could predict what might happen if Luther was truly insane. He was sure of one thing, however-- if Luther Pittman had actually seen him, the Walking Man's life was worth no more than Brenda Pittman’s.
New Carruthers incorporated a unique blend of New England charm and enterprise. Most of the towns, especially the county seats, were designed with the courthouse at the epicenter and the obligatory circular traffic way around it. Within this efficient hub, the radii became avenues and streets, diverging at sixty-degree angles. Of course, in front of the courthouse sits the town park with its resident statues and benches, all pockmarked by pigeons.
The Walking Man chose a bench on the far edge, partially secluded, and away from the busiest street. It was not his habit to recline, but he did, this morning. He sat and watched, trying to get a gut feeling for the sensibilities of the population. He was hungry and had no means of obtaining food except to work for it… or steal it. Most New Englanders he had experienced were not apt to give handouts. They were charitable enough, he supposed, it just wasn't something they would feel comfortable about openly exhibiting. The Yankee work ethic precluded open display of soft-heartedness, lest it be misinterpreted as soft-headedness by one’s neighbors. However, the gnawing in his stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten in several days. He had to make a move soon.
Many patrons came in and out of a small corner diner located on the corner, so he decided to make the establishment his immediate objective. He walked around to the alley behind the Downtowner Cafe and stood beside the dumpster. Pausing momentarily to steel his nerves, he stood in front of the back door with the sign announcing EMPLOYEES ONLY. He took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against it. Even with protection of leather gloves, the jolt caused his arthritic fingers to ache and he hoped not to have to repeat. Certainly, he didn't want to try it with his gloves off. As he waited, the cold wind nipped his ears, causing them to burn and prompted him to put his hood up. The slight increase in body temperature was all the medicine he needed and the burning stopped. He grinned a little as it came to mind that if he walked across the street to the drug store, he could probably watch someone pay four or five dollars for a jar of cream to do exactly the same thing.
What was taking so long? Why hadn't anyone come to the door? He removed his right glove, silently cursed under his breath, and reaffirmed his loathing for civilization. Just as he started to reach for the door, it swung open and a matronly woman stood in front of him. In her right hand, she held a wadded towel to push the door open, in her left, a stack of dirty dishes and utensils.
"Well, I ain't got all day, Johnny, whaddaya want, as if I didn't already know?"
The Walking Man bristled slightly, gathered his dignity. "There's no need to mock me, I was hoping to work for a little food. If this isn't possible, merely shut the door, and I'll leave."
"Oh, you're a cocky rooster, ain't ya? Well, come on in here, Johnny, lets see if you're as good a worker as you are a talker!"
With that, she started walking back through the kitchen area. As she took her third or fourth step, she glanced behind her to see his gaunt form still standing beyond the door. As she stopped and put her hands on her hips, she watched him step into the doorway, and a bright smile lit up her face.
"Grab that apron next to the sink there, and give me a hand with these dishes. How do you like your eggs, over or up?"
She didn't wait for his answer, and as he watched her re-enter the dining room, she was no longer looking at him. She had a full house and was apparently working alone. He judged that she had been doing this for a long time. He was merely another piece of her puzzle, if perhaps a bit misshapen. She'd make it fit.
He removed his outerwear, and grabbed the apron. As he tied it around his waist, he looked out into the hive of activity in front of him and marveled at her actions. There were no wasted movements; every step filled a coffee cup, placed a check face down on a table, or picked up the jelly from one table and put it on another. She conversed with the patrons with ease, a mother talking to her children in the family dining room. Yes, she would help him find Brenda Pittman; he could feel it in his bones.
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