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CHAPTER 3
Two hours of dishes without stopping for so much as a quick stretch made The Walking Man’s back ache. He didn’t see the woman’s legerdemain, but suddenly the dishes appearing on the drain board were transformed into pots and pans, and he knew the breakfast rush was near completion. As he scrubbed the stubborn stains from the pots, he recalled by-gone days when he last washed dishes. It had been Infantry Training Regiment at Camp Pendleton and every Marine took his turn in the galley. Silently, painfully, his mind rehashed the events, as if the VCR in his mind was stuck on Fast Forward. Boot Camp, ITR, Staging Battalion, then over the pond. As he recalled his service in Vietnam, each scene becoming more and more vivid, until abruptly stopping when the land mine triggered. A soft hand on his shoulder startled him--
"It's okay, Johnny, it's just me. I reckon you've earned yourself steak and eggs. To be honest, I've never had anyone show up at my door who could do dishes as good as you! Come, sit down, let me rustle you up some breakfast."
"Thank you, but I don't often eat meat. Maybe some eggs and toast would be nice, though, please. If you have a cup of hot tea, I'd be most appreciative."
As he sat down, he noticed the pay phone by the cash register, with the directory hanging on a chain beside it. No one else was in the cafe now, and this gave him comfort. He glanced into the kitchen and saw the little woman standing over the stove with her back to him, so he quickly rose and walked to the counter. He picked up the tattered directory, hoping it was complete. Riffling through the pages, he realized he needed bifocals or longer arms. Finally, he found the P section and went down the list, Pa, Pe, Pi...
Pittman, L & B...... 1206 Morning Glory Lane 296-1385
Office ............…….. County Sheriffs Dept 296-1000
Mother of God, this madman was the freaking sheriff! What had he gotten himself into? He shut the book and let it hang against the wall. The Walking Man exhaled, walked slowly back and sat down, staring only at the linen tablecloth in front of him. Wistfully, he rubbed his face with his hands, hoping to make the entire scene disappear, along with the memories of the last twenty-four hours.
The sound of a plate being placed in front of him forced him back to reality. The room was now silent, even the muffled clank of cup against saucer seemed amplified. The woman poured the hot water over a tea bag and he put his hands lovingly around the cup, enjoying its warmth. A platter of eggs and hash browns sat in front of him, a lemon wedge and sliver of parsley placed elegantly on one side. Beside it sat a smaller plate, with golden browned wheat toast stacked neatly upon it. As she sat the last dish in front of him, she also sat down, and her blue eyes compelled him to look at her. He had seen that look before. It was the face of his mother looking at her troubled child.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"It's... complicated."
There was no further conversation, so he picked up his fork and cut his food. Each mouthful tasted better than the last. Hungry as he was, he ate slowly, savoring each bite. The nourishment revitalized him, body and soul. Occasionally, they made eye contact, but no words were spoken until his plate was nearly empty.
"You know, Johnny, it ain't good to keep everything bottled up inside a person," she sipped her coffee, looking him right in the eye, "not good at all. At some time or another, everyone needs some help. Why don't you tell me about it?"
Her eyes were clear and she seemed sincere enough. There was no agenda in her words. The last forkful of eggs allowed him time to choose his words carefully, to think as he chewed. It was show time.
"Why should you want to help me? You saw me for the first time a couple of hours ago. For all you know, I could be setting you up to come back here and steal everything you have tonight, while you sleep."
The room was totally silent for a few seconds. Suddenly, she threw her head back and a giant horse-laugh emerged from somewhere deep inside her. Her whole body shook as she put her hands to her mouth. Her eyes appeared wet and squinty, mere slivers in a sea of bright pink.
"Yea, you impress me as a mean one, all right! " Again she erupted in laughter.
She dabbed at her eyes with her apron to wipe away the tears, sighed and attempted to regain her composure enough to speak.
"Look, I'm an old woman. I ain't got much, so if you're gonna steal it, get busy! I'll tell you what, tell me where you want it sent, and I'll have it shipped to you, save you the trouble. I wouldn't want it on my conscience if you got a hernia trying to carry off that damn cash register!"
The Walking Man sat stock still as the little woman contorted in laughter. Now, he was laughing along with her.
There could be no doubt about it-- this woman was special. The laughter felt good. It was an emotion that came hard for him. It always had. It made him feel vulnerable and uncomfortable usually, yet somehow, today he felt neither.
"I truly believe you would", he said.
"Listen to me, " she began, giving him a motherly pat on the hand. "I've been on God's earth long enough to know that I don't have to see a skunk to know he's in the vicinity. And I strongly suspect that you smell that skunk, too, don't you? Pardon the insinuation, but you don't seem to be the sort of man who would be caught dead in this berg without a damn good reason, am I wrong?"
He smiled into his cup, sighed a little, realizing that he was transparent to her, and said, "My name is Thomas Meyer, but my family always called me Oscar, presumably in deference to the famous meat packer of the same name. Private joke, I guess. "
She extended her hand across the table, that engaging smile affixed firmly in place.
"Nice to meat you, Oscar Meyer, " she said, and fell silent, waiting to see who would break up first.
Of course she did, and once again, they were both wrapping their arms around their sides, as the raucous laughter filled the room. Neither spoke for a few seconds, in silent reassessment of shared eye contact.
"I’m Edwina Hershey, but for the last forty years or so, I've been known as Fudge. It started out as a private joke between my hubby and me, God rest his soul; but before I knew it the whole damn town was calling me that! In a town this size, you can't fart without someone knowing it. "
The unlikely new friends exchanged small talk for a few minutes as Tom sipped his tea. Fudge’s hands punctuated each sentence as she carried the conversation, gesticulating each point. Then, there was a perceptible lull, as the tone changed. As if someone had opened the front door, suddenly the air in the room turned cold.
Tom stared into her eyes and said, "Mrs. Hershey, can you tell me how to find Brenda Pittman?"
He could feel her intensity as she stared silently into his eyes, searching for a hint of motive.
"Why do you want to find her?" she answered.
No doubt about it, he’d hit a nerve. "Is it important to you?"
She maintained eye contact as she nonchalantly sipped her coffee. Tom suddenly felt intimidated as she spoke. "Well, it's important to both of us, if you intend to have me answer you."
There was no levity left in her voice. Once again, his fears were reconfirmed. The panic made him want to do bolt.
"It's really nothing. I just, uh, heard her name mentioned last night, and I wondered if she lived here, that's all."
The gloves were off. The woman stood up and put her face within inches of Tom’s. "You're an awful liar, mister, and I have a feeling that one or the other of you is in trouble, maybe both. So, if you don't want to make an enemy, I suggest you be a little more upfront with the information, that is, if you don't want me to walk out that door and walk right across the street to the office of her husband, Sheriff Luther Pittman! You see, sir, I happen to be Brenda Pittman's mother! "
The room fell silent as Tom rubbed his face and eyes. How could he tell the mother of an intended murder victim what he knew, especially when she apparently admired Luther? How deep did the conspiracy go? How crazy was Luther Pittman? Did this poor woman have any idea what was going on? How would she react if he told her?
He bowed his head and stared at his lap.
"Mrs. Hershey, your daughter may be in great danger, I'm sorry to have to tell you."
He looked up for her reaction, and saw all the blood start to drain out of her face.
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